


you wove a stanza around my heart (and tattooed the lyrics across my soul)

by ginnystar (ginny_star), redlightwarning



Series: you wove a stanza around my heart (and tattooed the lyrics across my soul) [1]
Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mentions of past drug use, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginny_star/pseuds/ginnystar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlightwarning/pseuds/redlightwarning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter takes on Happy as the drummer for their band. Toby takes umbrage to this (until he doesn’t). </p>
<p>He thought she was his dirge; turns out she is a motet.</p>
<p>aka: Happy is punk. Everybody else sucks. They're surprisingly popular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you wove a stanza around my heart (and tattooed the lyrics across my soul)

**Author's Note:**

> Ginny: The day we found each other on Kik was the biggest mistake of our lives. Or quite possibly the best decision we've ever made. From one of the ( _many_ ) fic ideas we threw at each other, this one bore A GREAT FUCKING BOUNTIFUL HARVEST OF FRUIT. Our band au fic (aka the monster baby, aka the 'SHIT, _HOW MANY WORDS??_ ' fic) has been amazing to write - it's been the longest thing in the entire fucking word (hey, remember when we said 'it'll be about 15,000 words'? Yeahhh). I feel very lucky to have met Megan, light of my life, witty and sweet and an absolute dear, through this fandom and am **so** proud to call her friend and to have had the chance to write with her. Dear heart, I look forward to writing and figuring out many more fic ideas with you.
> 
> Megan: Six weeks and five days ago, I sent a message to Ginny simply saying something like 'I want a band au but idk how to make it happen???' and I am so glad that I did. I adore Ginny, I truly do. She's wonderfully funny, and an amazing person, and an enabler in the very best of ways. It's been such a journey, and despite the hysterical laughter/gross sobbing that occurred as we watched the word count grow, writing with Ginny is what I looked forward to most during my days, and finally finishing this fic was a bittersweet affair. As proud as we are, I'm pretty sure we likened it to losing a limb at least once. So I'd like to thank her for indulging me, and brainstorming with me, and holding my hand, and definitely for taking over scenes when I started threatening to throw my laptop at the wall and move to Brazil. It's been an honour, and an absolute delight, my love.
> 
> Also: Over the course of writing this fic, we discovered that this story was so much more than a Scorpion AU - it covers indirect racism, misogyny, the brutality of the music industry, the sometimes mob mentality of fans, the importance of an unreliable narrator and much more that we hope to expand upon in an accompanying fic commentary/essay.

**September 2015**

Toby stares at Walter as he tries to understand just what exactly is going on here. Walter looks unconcerned, still shooting that excited little grin of his at them like he expects praise for messing up so monumentally.

“ _Excuse me?_ You want to...” He trails off, the idea too horrendous to voice. “How did this happen, exactly?”

He turns his scrutiny to the young girl stood next to Walter, who is scowling defiantly back at him. She’s certainly very pretty and there’s an element of danger to her as well, dressed as she is in leather and biker boots. Toby could maybe understand Walter’s interest, except he’s just hired his latest _groupie_ to be their new _drummer_.

Like, that’s so not going to be a thing, if Toby has any say in matters.

“We need a drummer, she plays the drums. I don’t see what the problem is.” Walter looks puzzled because he’s oblivious and is also thinking more with his dick than anything else, and Toby is _pissed_. He’d thought everything was going to be better now, with Collins gone and Walter finally fucking clean, but apparently Walter isn’t _quite_ finished being unreasonable and ridiculous.

Sylvester clears his throat and offers the girl a shy wave and a smile, and Toby leans over to slug him in the arm, rolling his eyes when Sylvester tries to reprimand him.

“Well, come and find me in a week when you need a ride to the hospital because you’ve got herpes.” He sneers as he stalks towards the door, gives a sarcastic little nod of acknowledgement to the girl, who looks positively _livid_ , and he smirks a little as he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.

The satisfaction lasts for maybe as long as it takes for him to walk the ten feet to his bedroom and he slams _that_ door behind him as well, cranking his music up until the walls are vibrating with the heavy bass and collapses face first onto his unmade bed.

The thing is, Walter is impulsive and impatient and loyal, but he’s also really fucking stubborn, and Toby knows without a shadow of a doubt that they’re stuck with her now.

-x-

She’s still there when he wakes up the next day, which is rather unfortunate because he’d been hoping that Walter’s little lapse in sanity had been nothing more than a bad dream, but when he stumbles out to the kitchen, she’s already sitting at the table, flicking nonchalantly through a jazz mag that someone has thoughtfully left lying around.

He huffs when he sees her, yanks open cupboards and drawers with more force than necessary as he grabs himself a bowl and an off-brand version of Froot Loops, and tries to ignore that he can feel her gaze burning holes into the back of his head.

“Is this yours?”

Her voice isn’t quite how he expected it. Hell, he’s not even sure _what_ he expected, but she’s quiet, almost _husky_ , and he can’t place her accent. When he turns to face her, she smirks, and gestures towards the double-page spread in front of her that has been doodled on in black pen.

“Three tits,” she points out, sounding more amused than she has the right to be, in his opinion. “Nice.”

It riles him up somehow and he slams a spoon down into his bowl.

“Can you like, fuck off now?”

He watches her watch him for a second, before she surrenders and pushes her chair away from the table with a sudden scraping that grates on his ears. He gives a derisive snort when he sees the too-long shirt she’s wearing that hangs against her thighs and she bristles against it as she stomps off back to Walter’s room and the clicking of the lock rings true in the silence.

Toby hates her more than anyone he’s ever met, bar Collins, and he grabs his magazine off the table, smooths out the pages gently before hiding it on top of the fridge, out of sight and reach for Walter’s little fangirl.

He ends up eating in his room, an uninvaded fortress from which to avoid the inevitable fallout when Walter won’t reciprocate her feelings for him.

It’s lonely, but it’s probably for the best.

-x-

**October 2015**

A month passes and relations don’t improve. It makes rehearsals... interesting, to say the least, and if she were anyone else, Toby would commend their perseverance. Except it’s her, always stalling, always complaining, and always messing up and he’s tired of it.

Collins was an asshole, but at least they got shit done with him around. It’s become a real point of contention between them, the number of times rehearsals grind to a halt so they can belittle and demean one another, and every time she gets that pinched look on her face, he feels a sick thrill of satisfaction.

Until the next time she changes something without warning them and he’s thrown off, _again_ , tripping over the frets until he’s so lost he just gives up altogether.

He watches her carry on playing and she shoots him an amused little glance as his blood pulses in his ears.

“Do you mind?” He snaps and the garage falls quiet again, save for Walter’s petulant muttering.

“Me?” She asks, tone sickly sweet. “Of course I don’t. What’s up?” She leans forward as if she’s actually interested in his answer. Toby wants to throttle her.

“If you could just stick to the song, if it’s not too much trouble, _sweetheart_.”

“Sorry, Curtis. Should have said something if you were struggling to keep up.”

One of these days he’s going to fucking punch her.

“Actually, I was more concerned that you hadn’t learnt the song yet? Maybe if you spent less time sucking dick...”

He walks away from that particular mess with a painful lump on his head, courtesy of her drumsticks. The satisfaction of winning lasts almost as long as the swelling.

(Almost.)

-x-

They continue to work together though, build their first single from the bottom up on a foundation of mutual loathing and a lack of respect, and they don’t realize it at the time, but that kind of karma always comes back to bite.

-x-

They arrive at the recording studio at a painfully early time on a Tuesday morning and the sun is low enough in the sky that the chill of the night still lingers. Toby wants his bed but he’s also excited, unlike Sylvester, who looks a little green in the face of the imposing building.

There’s a quiet moment where they all just take it in before Walter finally speaks.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

Toby snorts. Inspiring words, indeed. He stills joins the others in a mad scramble out of their van and for the door though, because holy shit, a _recording studio_.

As it turns out, it is less the glamorous affair that he had always imagined it to be. It isn’t _quite_ the bonding experience he had envisaged, less camaraderie and kinship forged by long hours in cramped quarters as he’d been led to believe (‘Bad Religion’ have a _lot_ to answer for).

Initially, it’s a lot of waiting around and signing forms and waiting around some more, but then they’re being led off down a series of winding corridors and hustled into a darkened room and Toby has to remind himself to breathe.

If everything works out, this could be their life. This and sold-out venues and millions of screaming fans and the heavy twang of steel under his fingertips and Toby wants it so much it _hurts_.

And magically, every impossible little part of them unites. It takes hours of reviewing and adjusting every little second of tape for it all to come together, and the ongoing feud that has defined the band for the past few weeks somehow loses relevance in the chaos. The brutality of them, the caustic remarks shared that fuel the fire seem grounding in the moment, and they argue furiously and ferociously and it feels like an anchor against the little thrill of euphoria, _repressed, rejected, denied_ , that threatens to consume them.

It’s wonderful though, the kind of laborious work that leaves Toby feeling overexposed, like his chest has been turned inside out and emptied onto the floor for perusal, and when it’s all finished and they’re exhausted and giggly with success, they drag themselves to a dingy bar tucked away in a backstreet for drinks.

Two hours later and they’re all three sheets to the wind, running on empty and cheap energy drink mixers. Toby’s propped himself against the solid weight of Sylvester in their booth and the world seems distant and unstable after a steady flow of alcohol and no food.

“Slyyyyy,” he singsongs. His voice is hoarse with drink and he’s so very drunk. “ I can’t believe we did it, Sly. We’re gon’ be _famous_.”

He raises his empty glass in the air and rears back a little to shout “Shots!” at no-one in particular.

A raucous cheer goes up from the crowd and Toby sniggers a little helplessly, sending bottles scattering as he kicks his feet up onto the the table.

He squints into the Tuesday night rabble and spies Walter gesticulating wildly at an older man, face weathered and stern. He looks annoyed. Walter’s victim, that is. Actually so does Walter, maybe? Toby is good at people but not when he’s not so sure he _hasn’t_ lost a thumb over the course of the evening. He definitely started the night out with two and right now he’s just having trouble counting. And possibly seeing.

He considers the distance between the booth and the bar and hankers after another drink. Happy had been dispatched a while ago but she’s yet to return and he’s an impatient person. He considers his legs briefly, unsure if they’re up to the task, but he gives it a shot anyway and struggles to his feet. The world tilts precariously and he almost overbalances, but he steadies himself with a clumsy grab at their table, which skitters an inch to the left under his weight. He’s upright though and he considers that to be enough of a success to warrant the self-congratulatory shout he makes, and when Happy turns towards him from her spot at the bar, he figures he should say something, maybe, like ‘ _good job_ ’ or ‘ _thank you for being unexpectedly awesome at producing_ ’ or ‘ _you look pretty when you have your hair like that_ ’. He tries to move though but finds himself stuck and he distantly tries to remember how legs are supposed to work before he’s toppling back down into his seat, just in time to see a tall stranger sidle up beside her and introduce himself.

He eyes them discreetly, fascinated by the her he sees through the cloud of inebriation that settles at the quirk of her mouth and her knowing gaze. The six inches of bulletproof glass she wraps around herself dissipates completely as the guy steps into her space and leans down to whisper something into her ear. She relaxes and turns towards him and it’s a startling contrast to everything he’s come to expect of her and he’s left oddly entranced for a second, hypnotized by the way the tension seems to seep away from the line of her shoulders. The guy tucks a strand of Happy’s hair behind her ear and she shoots him a coquettish grin and says something that makes him laugh. He takes another step towards her, cages her in against the bar and she _lets_ him. It pulls Toby up short for a moment, until he sees her gaze rake down his body and Toby realises that when she looks at the man, it’s assessing; and it’s _arresting_ , that the man has been making all the moves but Happy’s been the one in control since the second she gave him the time of day. It pisses Toby off because he just doesn’t _get_ her.

She screwed Walter for a place in the band but apparently she’s willing to risk it all just a few weeks later for a cheap shag and it’s not that she doesn’t like Walter, he _knows_ she does, okay. He’s probably the only person she has ever respected in her life and he also knows Walter trusts her, there’s an easy intimacy between the two that Walter’s never had with anyone before and Toby is not about to let her fuck that up for nothing.

He heaves himself back up onto his unsteady feet, half staggers a path through the tables and people towards the bar, and drops himself heavily onto the empty stool next to her with a leer and a, “hello, _sweetheart_.”

She shoots him a significant look and he’s not certain she won’t bottle him if he carries on, but he’s drunk and angry enough that he doesn’t actually care. He flags down a beer from the girl pouring drinks, a pretty little thing with a patient smile, and raises it mockingly at Happy’s beau before he takes a sip.

“You work fast,” he teases, paying attention to the tiny furrow of her brow. He leans closer to her and makes a show of checking her out, slow and careful, doesn’t acknowledge the hand the guy has slipped under the hem of her shirt. He presses closer still and, lowering his tone like he’s whispering, asks her; “What’s the going nightly rate, these days?”, before biting his lip like it’s a secret accidentally revealed.

The guy disengages quickly and quietly, brushing a hand down his shirt as if removing any trace of Happy’s presence and Happy ignores him to turn towards Toby, staring at him until they’re alone together and he’s caught up in her gaze.

“Okay, what is your problem with me fucking someone?”

“I don’t know,” he sneers back at her. “Maybe it’s because you’re already _fucking_ Walter. Can’t you calm yourself?”

He downs the rest of his drink all at once and slams the bottle down on the bar with a bang, and when he looks back at her, she has this incredulous look on her face, like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or grimace.

“Uh, me and Walter? No,” she says emphatically, eyes widening as he frowns at her distrustfully. “I don’t think so. _Ever_.”

There’s a palpable moment between them as they regard one another.

“Good,” Toby finally says, and there’s a release between them as they settle into one another’s presence, and the tension between them thaws infinitesimally.

“You did good today. Producing it all, I mean.”

He gestures to the girl behind the bar again, but for two shots this time, and hands her a ten as she puts them down in front of him. He pushes one towards Happy and refuses to look at her, even as she studies the side of his face with an intensity that burns uncomfortably against his skin.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

-x-

**November 2015**

There’s a nervous anticipation lingering in the conference room, exacerbated by the sullen _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock on the wall and the rustle of clothes against chairs as they shift back and forth. Someone is _tap-tapping_ their fingers against the table and Toby has to focus on the sound and remind himself to breathe.

He watches Sylvester out of the corner of his eye, practically vibrating as he refreshes their Youtube page over and over again to watch the little counters rise each time and Toby can’t even look at the numbers anymore. It’s been five weeks since they posted their single online and its had more hits in the past month then all of their songs for the past three years.

It’s a dizzying thought, and along with all the positive feedback they’ve been getting, his blood feels like pure Red Bull fizzing in his veins.

There are footsteps in the hall and voices just outside the door, and they all share a final panicked look as the door opens and an older man steps into the room, a sheath of papers in one hand.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “Thank you for waiting.” He steps forward to introduce himself and they all rise from their seats like marionettes on strings. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you folk, my name i-”

“Cabe.”

The man lowers the outstretched hand that hovers in midair and there’s something about the moment that reminds Toby, ridiculously, of a tense facial Mexican standoff. There’s a heaviness to the silence now, the excitement twisting into something darker, and Toby can _feel_ it, almost like it’s physically oppressing him - a quick glance around the room and he can tell it’s not just him. In fact, and he looks again, because actually, Happy seems to recognise the man, or know of him, because she darts quick little looks at him and Walter - who remains seated, taut with barely contained fury.

“Okay,” my-name-is-Cabe says slowly, as he moves further into the room. “I realise I’m probably the last person you want to see right now. Especially here in this room. But hear me out, and I promise if you don’t like what I’m saying, I will leave, and that’ll be the last you see of me.” The platitudes are vague and it irks Toby, because this sounds like _history_ , this sounds like a story he’s not privy to. He’s seen this look on Walter before though, and not too long ago. In fact… he squints a little, and his mind wanders back to the night after they had recorded their single, and drinks (oh God, so many drinks, and _hah_ , so bad a hangover the day after) had been consumed and… yeah, there was a moment, he thinks. Angry Walter. Angrier man.

“Angrier man,” he blurts out without thinking, and at least it breaks a little of the fraught tension in the room - even if Sylvester looks at him like he’s gone mad. “You were at the bar, weren’t you? The night we finished our song.” _You looked pissed_ , goes unsaid. My-name-is-Cabe nods once, sharply, and he looks back at Walter, who at least now looks less like he wants to break a chair over the guy’s head. Which, you know, wasn’t Toby’s intention, but whatever, it’s enough of a release.

It takes another minute or so of posturing before they eventually all manage to sit down together, and Cabe looks like he’s about to say something to defuse the remaining tension, but he stays silent as he passes out what feels like hundreds of papers and notices and letters to them, all the while levelling each of them with a piercing stare.

He finally speaks up when the shuffle of paper gradually lessens to a silence, and they all turn to him expectantly.

“I’m going to make this short and sweet,” he says with another glance at Walter, who now seems to be doing his best to pretend Cabe doesn’t exist and looking petulant. Toby hopes the wind changes direction and his face gets stuck like that. “I’m here as an official representative of Agent Records to offer you guys a potential contract with our company. Now, it’s not much to start off with, but we would provide you with access to one of our studios, an experienced producer and, depending on album sales, there’s opportunities for further media exposure.” Cabe clasps his hands together loosely on the table in front of him. “You’ll note on page two of the summary that, should you accept, I have offered my services in a managerial capacity.”

Toby can see the almost knee-jerk way Walter wants to say _no_ , or maybe _fuck you_ , but it’s cut off by what looks like a well-aimed kick under the table from Happy. Toby raises an eyebrow at her or something, and she looks back at him, face impassive - but there’s a glint in her eyes that gives the game away. She totally kicked Walter.

Cabe can see that they need some time to even think about the negotiation, let alone anything to do with the contract, so he suggests they take five, talk it out amongst themselves. But he does add before he leaves that he does want to help them, that he wants to do right by him, by them. Walter’s gaze is still fixed on a point past the man, but Toby can see that there’s a quick double-hitch in his breathing and a twitch of his brow that shows Walter is listening, in spite of his affected, insulted air.

Walter doesn’t want to, Sly does and Toby wants this too - this is an _actual record company_ , with _actual resources_ , and they wouldn’t have to remain stuck in their crappy little apartment living off instant noodles and poptarts but Walter remains unconvinced. Toby wants to shake him and shout _how about that, Walter? Huh? This might actually be our one shot at the big time and you don’t want to take it all because, **what**?_

But it’s hopeless and they keep going round and round in circles because Walter refuses to listen to reason until, in a fit of desperation, he looks towards Happy, who has mostly been letting them squabble amongst themselves and begs her, _implores_ her to _do something._

She sighs like it’s some huge inconvenience, but she turns to Walter anyway. “Breaking this down logically, you’re not just gonna give up on this now.”

Walter scowls straight back at her and Toby’s sure that a meltdown is imminent because Walter looks determined and his arms are crossed over his chest defensively.

“I’m telling you, I don’t trust him,” he says, and Toby rolls his eyes because it’s the _only_ thing Walter has to say on the matter and _I’m telling you_ isn’t grounds for a dismissal of a recording contract, in his opinion. Happy looks unfazed, just raising an eyebrow when Walter huffs at her as if she’s scolding a child.

Toby wants to keep her around forever if it means she’ll keep telling Walter off.

“I get it, but without an influx of capital these two are just going to go back to playing the tourists, and they’re going to piss off the wrong guy and get hurt.”

Except maybe not because _hey, rude!_ but his protests go ignored.

“Now personally, I’m cool. I can handle myself, that’s not a problem, but this has always been your dream, Walt, and you made it theirs too.” She pauses, and Toby can see that Walter is wavering, that the words wash over him and take hold. The fight leaves him, and his shoulders slump, and almost against his will, he nods. “I know what he did wasn’t cool, but you need to make sure you’re not gonna regret this six months down the line.”

“Okay,” he says and nods again, and that’s that.

When Cabe comes back in, not even a minute after they _finally_ reach an agreement, he’s all squared shoulders and looking quick to reason and ready to offer further persuasion, but Walter cuts in before he can say a word.

“We’ll do it,” he says. “Or start the negotiations anyway.”

Cabe’s mouth quirks up into a small grin and something about him relaxes. Toby would be lying if he denies feeling stupidly, _overwhelmingly_ relieved, and when he catches Happy’s eye, he smiles so wide his cheeks ache and his lips crack.

“You made the right choice,” Cabe assures them. “I won’t let you kids down.”

Toby is close enough to Walter to hear the, “ _this_ time,” he mutters beneath his breath and there’s a _story_ , and Toby itches to know it, but that’s not important right now, this is.

This huge, impossible gift they’ve just been given.

Cabe sits back down and the negotiations begin in earnest.

-x-

It takes a while for everything to become Official and for a lot of people Toby has never heard of to dot their i’s and cross their t’s and it all becomes a lot like a very elaborate game of ‘Simon says’, where ‘Simon’ tells someone to tell someone to tell Cabe that they need to write new songs that aren’t already splashed over Youtube, to make sure they get dressed before leaving their apartment and to make pigs fly if they want The Contract to be filed. It makes Toby twitchy and he’s not alone; every time Cabe arrives with more ‘directions’, Walter blanches, his face pinching into this little angry frown. It’s probably the funniest thing Toby has ever seen, and to properly honour each occasion, whenever Cabe comes calling, Toby spends more time with his camera app open than actually paying attention to what’s being said. He’s gained _quite_ the Insta-following, even if he does say so himself.

He’s scrolling through his feed right now, nary a consideration for the impromptu ‘band meeting’, (and they have those now!), occurring around him because he’s distracted by the pictures of food that keep popping up. He’s absolutely starving and the universe is mocking him because the cupboards are depressingly bare of anything that is not plain crackers and icing sugar.

He’s also incredibly broke.

As soon as there is the merest hint of a lull in the conversation that is flying across the living room, Toby takes advantage of the silence to butt in. “Look, we can all argue about studio time until the cows come home, but if I’m gonna die of boredom, I wanna do it feeling full.” He gestures wildly towards the kitchen and tries to telepathically let them all know that _there’s no food,_ and throws Cabe a hopeful look. “We’re all hungry, and we’re all a little short. I’m pretty sure as our manager you’re supposed to make sure your protégés are somewhat fed and watered, right?”

Cabe doesn’t even so much as twitch, damn him. “Somewhat,” he agrees dryly. “But the contract doesn’t say I’m your personal ATM machine either. It _is_ getting pretty late though, I’ll give you that. I’ll come back another time.” With that, he begins to shuffle the papers scattered over the table back into some sort of order that must be known only to Cabe because it doesn’t look like any sort of order at all.

“Wait, are you serious?”

“As a peek frean.”

“I don’t know what that actually means,” Toby hollers after his retreating figure, and turns back to the others in the living room. “How much have you guys got on you?” As it turns out, no-one seems to actually trust him on his own with their money (which, again, _rude_ ) and that’s how they find themselves in their local grocery store at 8pm in the evening.

They’ve got just short of $20 between them, and absolutely no consensus as to what should be bought, so they split it amongst themselves and wander off by themselves with an agreement to meet in 15 minutes out front.

Toby heads straight for the discount aisle and isn’t surprised when Walter trails after him. Splitting up might have been a useless idea if they’re all going to be staring at the same uninspiring rows of crushed boxes and dented cans. He does eventually spy a jumbo bag of marshmallows, and despite them feeling suspiciously _crunchy_ , he throws them in the basket anyway. Desperate times and all that.

He also ends up grabbing a bag of apples (because he’s punk rock enough to care about his health, thank you) and they’re only slightly old.

(He’s maybe considering ditching them for a box of poptarts, because he’s a few cents short of being able to afford both, when Sylvester appears at his side.)

“Can I borrow twenty cents?”

The poptarts look so lonely on the shelf.

Sylvester mutters something under his breath as he dusts a hand off on his shirt and rummages in his pocket and when Toby looks over, he still swallowing the crumbs from the half eaten cookie he’s holding in his left paw. Toby stares, instantly worried that Sylvester is so hungry he’s delusional because, as far as Toby can tell, Sylvester hasn’t checked out yet.

“Did you pay for that cookie,” he asks, and usually he’d be excited about any kind of mayhem or law breaking, but they literally can’t afford _food_ right now, let alone bail.

Sly grins at him, big and bright enough that his eyes wrinkle in the corners and his chest puffs out like he’s feeling so unbearably happy his body is struggling to contain the feeling. “Happy gave it to me!”

_Right_. Toby thinks his point about being broke and unable to pay bail still stands. “Did _Happy_ pay for that cookie?”

“It’s a free sample,” Sylvester says as he smiles around another bite and Toby takes a moment to absorb the information because _it’s a free sample,_ _apparently_. Toby feels betrayed. He’s been coming to this store for _years_ and it’s not even a _good_ store but he’s never been offered a free fucking sample before. He feels cheated. Where’s the justice in that?

“Is she still at the bakery?”

He’s not going to go and find her and cause a scene. Probably not, anyway. He wants free cookies too.

Sylvester gives a lazy shrug. “Are you almost done?”

He grabs the poptarts and slings them in his basket. “All finished here. You done, bud?”

He is done and they both head to a cashier to check out their meagre finds - it isn’t much but it’ll last them until Walter’s wage from his part time job rolls in next week. They’re hanging around by the automatic doors waiting for Happy when Sly gets a whatsapp from Happy informing them that she’s already set off home, which is _charming_ , really and Toby didn’t know that either of them even _had_ whatsapp, but he doesn’t say anything about it, just follows Sylvester as he sets off down the road back towards _warmth_ and _rest_ and _food_.

When they finally, _finally_ get home and stagger into the apartment, Happy’s rustling around in the kitchen and they all freeze in the doorway, because there’s not just one half-filled paper bag of groceries on the table, there are _two bulging bags crammed to the very brim_ , and Toby’s heart catches in his throat as he has a mini freak out because again, _they seriously can’t afford bail_ , but he’s the only one that seems to understand this?

“God, Happy, did you steal all of that?” He sounds desperate, even to his own ears, and his voice cracks and trips over the word ‘steal’, and he distantly, vaguely, prays that she’s a secret freegan.

Happy tips one of the bags upside down and lets everything fly across the table, and surveys the wreckage with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s samples, mostly,” she says. Toby pokes a joint of meat dubiously.

“ _That’s_ not a sample,” he observes, and he gives it another prod, half expecting it to disappear.

“Leave it alone!” Happy snatches it away from him and holds it up triumphantly in the air like it’s a trophy. “A granny bought me that at the deli counter,” she explains. “The cookies and the gouda were-”

Toby chokes on nothing at all and asks himself, not for the first time, where the hell Walter found this woman.

“ _The gouda?”_

“We don’t have bread,” Sylvester points out, like _the gouda_ is only crazy because they’re without bread, not because _it’s fucking gouda._

She’s insane. “You’re insane.”

Happy doesn’t acknowledge him because she’s too busy rooting around in the second bag but then she emerges and presents a loaf of bread to the room with a flourish.

“That is _not_ bread,” Sylvester says, and Toby is inclined to believe him. It looks really dark and grainy and it’s not _sliced,_ okay. Bread is _sliced_. What she’s holding is bird seed at best.

Happy tries to defend the ‘bread’, but Toby ignores her and begins pawing through the rest of the goods, his own booty forgotten and quietly pushed out of sight - how could crunchy marshmallows and apples compete? He delves to the bottom of the second bag, pulls out a squash and thrusts it in Happy’s direction. She frowns at it like it’s a complicated puzzle she has yet to work out and Toby thinks she’s beginning to grasp the ridiculousness of the situation. “I didn’t put that there.”

_Or not._

“Did you steal _this_?” Toby asks bewildered, but Happy shoots him an exasperated look.

“I didn’t steal _anything_ , okay, I just... don’t remember buying it.”

“Ooh, quinoa!” Toby doesn’t need to look at Sylvester to know this isn’t a fight he’s going to win; Walter doesn’t seem to think it’s bizarre at all and Sylvester’s been bought over by _quinoa_ so he’s not going to interrogate Happy over exactly how she came into possession of so many _things._ Toby is the only one left who wants answers and maybe a lesson or two in procuring free food himself, but Happy has turned her back on the conversation, and is busy herself shoving random foodstuffs into equally random places. Toby looks over at Walter, who simply shrugs, says, “She’s always been able to do that. People just give her stuff,” like that explains everything.

“Like a _superpower_ ,” Sly enthuses and when Toby looks over, he’s _sniffing_ the packet of quinoa and in Toby’s honest opinion, it’s so unfair! She can’t be pretty and be good at drumming _and_ be good at scoring all this stuff. Surely there has to be a cosmic law or something preventing such a dangerous combination of personal qualities?

He’s brought back to the present when Happy makes a little excited sound at the back of her throat, turns her jacket pocket inside-out and slaps three cents down on the table with a grin.

“You have _change_?!” Toby yelps.

-x-

He does eventually stop complaining though because (he will never _ever_ say this out loud) quinoa is actually quite tasty and the rye bread isn’t even as bad as he thought it was going to be and with the cheeky bottle of cheap red wine that Happy promises she did actually pay for, it’s easy to relax into themselves and one another, to dawdle around the table for a while sharing stories, reluctant to leave each other’s company when they’re all happy and giggly and content.

-x-

Toby’s not sure who eventually makes the suggestion but _mattresses_. Out on the living room floor. It sounds like a _great_ idea. He’s full and his limbs feel like liquid and he wants to watch a horror flick and this is like, the ideal time for _bonding_ , and he says so, announces to the room that they should watch cult horror films and have it inspire their writing, but Happy snorts, tells him, “Punk isn’t scary,” around her laughter. She settles down though, and eventually agrees, but only if they watch _‘An American Werewolf In London_ ’ and soon they are all sprawled out on the living room floor, curled up around each other like commas, Sly peeking glances at the screen from behind Happy’s hair.

It’s dark and quiet and intimate until someone gives a strangled, nervous squeal at some point and it isn’t Happy, who just _laughs_ and _laughs_ in the face of flying limbs and 80s gore as Walter frantically tries to pause the film and turn the lights back on simultaneously.

And later, when they’ve all calmed down, Sly is the one who writes something worthwhile, but it isn’t inspired so much by the films as it is by that night, friendship and companionship, and bread that isn’t so much bread as it is wonder.

-x-

It’s surprisingly easy to settle into the new routines that being _a_ _signed band_ brings, even if Sly is a little antsy about letting Walter give up his job so they can focus on writing and practising and learning how to work with and around each other with ease. It takes time and a lot of missteps, but they slowly learn how to rearrange their lives around each other and, somehow, it all starts to come together. Happy and Toby stop screaming at each other every other hour, and their interactions are still comprised of biting snark and verbal jabs, but there’s no space for that hostility that used to define them so it settles into something a little warmer, but no less fiery.

It becomes a routine, in and of itself. They fight over their equipment and breakfast bowls and what to watch on Netflix, but during rehearsals, (and they rehearse furiously and frequently nowadays), the oceans between them seem to settle into streams, and it’s far from perfect, but they manage to paint their own little portrait of cohesion.

-x-

They find, one evening, the perfect synchronicity they’ve been holding their breath for when, on a particularly high note, Walter’s voice cracks, much like a boy on the cusp of painful, mocking maturity. In fact, Toby is vaguely aware that he and Happy still their instruments at the exact same time, lower them and when he looks at her, he imagines he’s wearing that same expression - somewhere between bemused and incredulous. Toby would have thought that he had imagined it, except Happy is biting the inside of her cheek furiously, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sly’s shoulders shake once, twice. Cabe’s voice filters through the intercom and he wants to know what’s going on. “We’re on the clock, people.”

There is a moment when the silence feels too strained, or pulled taut like one of his guitar strings, and no one speaks, barely even _breathes_.

“I don’t know, Cabe,” Toby says mildly, “Maybe you should ask Walter.”

Happy sniggers at that, demands that Walter says _‘refraction’_ again, but Walter just glares at her as Toby snickers and Sly can’t seem to help himself either because he repeats the word under his breath, his voice sounding strangled by his smothered giggles, and at once, they all fall to pieces.

They’re completely useless for the rest of the day, and when one of them sniggers, they all fall apart again like the first time, and it’s clear that Cabe is so done with all of them. He snaps at them more than once and spends a decent amount of time just pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to stave off the epic headache that must be building before he gives up on them for the day, and waves at them tiredly as he tells them to _go home already._

-x-

It’s late one night, practically the early hours of the morning, when Toby’s eyes are gritty and sore with exhaustion, that he finally, _finally_ pulls himself away from his phone and finds himself alone in the studio with Happy.

It’s not the first time they’ve shared the same room without someone running interference per se, but it is definitely not a regular occurrence, and it’s enough to have him rolling his shoulders with unease when he drops his phone into his lap and looks up to find both Walter and Sylvester curled up together on the floor asleep under a pile of jackets, and Happy still sat in front of the soundboard in the same position she’d been in however many hours ago before he’d become absorbed by the internet. She’s holding herself very carefully, her head down and shoulders up around her ears as she flicks switches and twiddles knobs mechanically, pausing for a couple of seconds before she flicks the next switch. He watches her for a few minutes but he really doesn’t know shit about producing so it’s a useless endeavour.

“Hey.”

Happy jumps in her seat and whips around to scowl at him, and she looks a little manic with her bloodshot eyes and bottom lip bitten red raw. Toby pulls himself up from the couch and his muscles spasm in protest as he takes the three steps towards Happy and collapses into the vacant chair next to her. She turns back to her switches and dials without acknowledging him but that’s fine. He relaxes into her presence and, honestly, he’s comfortable just watching her work; it’s somewhat soothing to watch her repetitive motions and to hear the song they’ve spent the last week working and reworking filter through a quiet repeat cycle, even as her knee jackrabbits away beneath the desk.

It takes him longer than it should to notice that it’s not just the same four bars playing over and over, but it’s the same three layers that she’s flipping through, _one, two, three,_ and the same combination of buttons looping. Toby doesn’t know what it is that she’s hearing, but it makes her frown deepen with every successive sequence, and she tugs at her curls with fingers that tremble slightly. His eyes widen and his heart does a _leap, stumble, fall_ when her expression gets all pinched and twisted around her mouth and it’s all horribly, _wildly_ unsettling.

“Come on, it’s late. Why don’t you leave that to the producer?”

She scoffs. “Because he’s shit at it,” Happy snaps and he thinks that might be all he’s going to get out of her, but then she’s saying more things, the words tripping over themselves in her haste, and it’s hard to keep up with her. “I’ve been listening to this damn song over and over again because there’s this little _ticking_ noise and I can’t fucking _find it_ in all the layers and if I don’t find it then we’re gonna have to record it all again!”

She’s breathless by the time she’s finished and the studio is quiet again save for the hushed snores of Walter and Sylvester and those same four bars sounding once more. Toby leans forward a little and wheels his chair closer to Happy’s so he is sat against the speakers. Closing his eyes, he takes the song in and categorizes each of the sounds, from the rhythmic _thump-thump_ of Happy’s drums to Sly’s sharp notes and he lets them lead him above and beyond and into the music itself until - _there_ \- his ears catch the steady _tick, tick, tick_ that she’s fretting over. He grins a little, and he tries to bite it back, he really does, but she’s all flushed with frustration and when she spies his smile, her eyes glitter with dangerous intent. She looks positively _livid._

“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “Tell me a secret, and I’ll tell you what the ticking is.”

There’s a moment between one breath and the next where she probes him with a look that leaves him feeling naked, but he doesn’t react. He just watches her watch him and waits for her to say something, _anything_ at all when the silence stretches out just a second too long.

“What do you want to know?” She eventually asks, and her answer seems to surprise herself as much as it surprises him. He shifts a little in his seat and drinks her in as a million and one half-formed curiosities spring to the forefront of his mind and he feels a little caught off guard; he hadn’t been aware that he’d been paying enough attention to care. He swallows a little thickly.

“Your scar,” he says, and when she frowns at him, he makes an abortive gesture towards the tangled knot of flesh that rests against her jawline, and when she leans away from him, he rolls his eyes and points vaguely to his own jaw. “When you’re upset you always touch it, like-” She brings a hand up self-consciously to thumb across the tightened skin and Toby smiles because, “Exactly like that.” He leans into her space a little more as she watches him with her eyes wide and more than a little confused. “How did you get it?” He hopes she doesn’t ask how he noticed (not that he’s noticed) and definitely why he cares (because he _doesn’t_ ), but she doesn’t ask. Her voice goes quiet and soft, a little hesitant when she talks like she’s scared he’ll laugh at her, and there’s more than one false start before the story seems to pry itself free from her throat.

She tells him in fits and starts that it’s a souvenir of her third foster home and a particularly vicious kid she’d got into a fight with when he’d been bullying some of the younger kids and she’d been beaned with something hard enough to warrant a trip to the hospital.

“By the time I got back, my bags had already been packed for me,” she admits, and she’s blushing a little like the story is something she’s ashamed of.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he tells her, and it’s an odd moment and the platitude is too heavy for the years gone by and the fragility of the moment, but the smile Happy shoots him is sweet and vulnerable and a little pleased.

He twitches a little under her stare and blinks the atmosphere away as he leans back in his chair and scratches his nails through his scruff. “It’s the clock, by the way.”

“...The clock?”

He lets a half grin play about his mouth at her confusion. “The ticking noise you keep hearing,” he prompts. “It’s just the clock, sweetheart.”

For a second it looks like she might actually bean _him_ but then she snorts and he does too, and they’re back on familiar ground, the odd little atmosphere from before gone. “It was the fucking _clock,_ ” she sighs, and gives this tired little laugh, and the relief in her tone is obvious. He raises an eyebrow at her and she laughs again, and it’s a little breathless at the edges.

“Can we go _home,_ now?” He asks when the laughter fizzles out, and he eyes Sly and Walter a little dubiously where they’re both still fast asleep on the floor and looking exhausted. Their song cycles through once more, before Happy switches the soundboard off with satisfaction, and the silence that follows is a companionable one.

“Home sounds good.”

-x-

**December 2015**

Things seem to spiral from that point on, and although he doesn’t intend to, Toby begins to notice these little things that make Happy... _Happy_.

It’s almost like he’s compelled to, and sometimes he even wonders why, what’s the point in digging up the truth of her when she’s _screaming_ at them for leaving the toilet seat up (seriously what is the big deal). But he does notice them, these curious little things she tries to keep quiet, like she sees them as imperfections, but when he catches her worrying at the frayed edges of her shirts or cursing like a sailor when she burns her tongue on her morning coffee, he just sees them as _her_. She’s an enigma of tics and habits and contradictions, and he thinks he could learn a million and one inconsequential little details about her and still feel lost in the impossible depths of her when she forbids her fingers from drumming half-formed rhythms against the nearest surface she can find.

It’s when he opens the cupboard one day and finds the coffee on the bottom shelf, not the top, that he loses himself in the tiny little ways they’ve adjusted to having her in their lives. He considers the way Walter absently washes the dishes now, as soon as he’s done with his plate, rather than leaving it to pile up around him in his room like some sort of weird little fort. He hears Sly reduced to giggles and considers how quickly Sly took to Happy, how seamlessly and easily Happy makes allowances for him like she’s been doing it her whole life, and how they whatsapp  one another from different rooms. It’s evident now, as Happy forces honey and lemon water down Walter’s throat because he spends half his days sounding rough as hell these days, and they don’t talk about it, but it makes them all worry.

He stares at the coffee pot for a long time as his chest burns and Sly laughs and Walter complains as he drinks his drink.

_Okay_ , he eventually thinks, and shuts the cupboard door.

-x-

It’s been a long, _long_ day when Cabe corners them at the studio, drags them into a conference room and tells them to do their first interview since their signing. “Homeland Security, meet ALARM Magazine’s Janice Keller,” he says and gestures to the petite blonde that stands to shake their hands before he is backing out of the room with a polite excuse and pulling the door shut behind him. Toby is instantly terrified, feels damn well close to paralyzed with fear as he begins to sweat, and he wants to call Cabe back, and explain that they’re not ready, they’re so far from ready for this, and then hide behind his legs until the journalist goes away.

Like he said, it’s been a long  day in their recording booth, fraught with a tension born of exhaustion and living out of each other’s pockets for way too long. Sylvester’s OCD has been particularly bad for the past week and it’s made Walter irritable in turn. He’s spent the day driving them harder and further and insisting that they can do better and it’d all been a bit too much all round, to be honest. Even the blazing row between Happy and Toby hadn’t been enough to distract him from his tyranny and they can’t _do_ this right now. They can’t be expected to be charming and put together at the drop of a hat because that’s never going to be the case.

“Hi guys, thanks for meeting with me,” the journalist says and she seems nice. She smiles and offers them a seat and Toby feels sorry for her. “I’d like to start by saying I loved _Down the Rabbit Hole_! It’s always great to see some fresh names on the scene.”

Walter nods shortly at her. “Well, that’s to be expected,” he tells her, and there’s a pregnant pause where Janice seems to expect them all to give a laugh and say something self-deprecating, but there’s only a tense, awkward silence. Her smile wavers and Toby drums his fingers against his leg impatiently.

“ _Okay._ ” She fumbles over her notebook and a voice recorder and the grin she gives them is tight and over-bright. “So how do you all feel about being signed after waiting so long. It’s been three years since Walter formed the band, right? Are you all excited?”

Happy scoffs at her, something that sounds a lot like ‘ _well, duh_ ’, and Sylvester trips over his own words and stutters out something charming and sweet about how nervous he is, but hopeful, too.

“Of course we’re excited,” Walter says. “Isn’t that what being a band is all about, having the opportunity to let everyone hear our music?” It’s obnoxious and pretentious and Janice looks shocked, and also a lot like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here, interviewing a band that clearly doesn’t _want_ to be interviewed. She fumbles with her notes again as she clearly fights her first few responses to Walter. There’s an awkward pause as she glances down at her pre-planned questions, at a loss for a response. Walter, with raised eyebrows, asks her if the silence means the interview is over; _because we have better things to do_ , unsaid but oh-so very clearly implied.

It’s all downhill from there and Toby, loathe to remain conscious of how epically they are fucking this up, tunes it all out. He drifts for a while, thinking of nothing in particular, but when Happy is asked a question she can’t dodge with a liberal dose of sarcasm, he watches her instead. She doesn’t say much from her seat at the other end of the table, and she’s affected a nonchalant, sprawling posture, but she’s obviously tense, and everything she _does_ say is snappy and defensive. He is also ridiculously, helplessly charmed when she turns that pointed exasperation on Walter himself, who has been quietly muttering to himself about how unprofessional they are all being.

Janice, eager to be finished with the interview, hurries through the next few questions, and accepts their monosyllabic answers with little pressing as she flicks through her sheaths of paper. “So, I understand that _Paranoia Leakage_ is the first with your new drummer since Mark Collins left.” The bored atmosphere from before dissipates, and Toby is suddenly very much in the present and curious as to how the statement will play out. “Seeing as there was never an official statement released regarding Mark’s swift departure… perhaps you would like to clarify things now?”

Happy straightens in her seat and crosses her arms. “There’s nothing to ‘clarify’. Collins left and I joined, end of story.” Her voice is like ice and her eyes glitter dangerously as she stares the room down. Toby eyes the journalist with bated breath as he waits for her to call Happy out on the obvious lie. She doesn’t though, she just raises her eyebrows until they practically disappear under her fringe, and looks entirely disbelieving, but she moves on nonetheless.

“And do you think this album will live up to the hype?”

“Of course it will,” Walter says. “I honestly don’t believe there has been a more technically perfect album ever recorded.”

-x-

Famous last words. No, _literally famous_ , seeing as Janice-the-journalist had the audacity to quote Walt word for word, and now it’s being used by music critics across the blogosphere with glee. Forget hitting top ten - their album clings, with pathetic tenacity, at the very edges of top thirty after peaking at twenty-nine, and Walter - hell, they _all_ are - is really fucking confused. And flummoxed. And _pissed_.

Toby paces back and forth in their living room, reading out loud a review from a blog. “ _Influx of Capital is a masterclass in balancing strings, beat, melody and voice. There is a wonderful creativity to I Could Do It Myself (With a Paperclip) which skillfully navigates the group’s dynamic approach to rhythm, and body. It is, as frontman Walter O’Brien claims, ‘technically perfect’. But it’s not enough to mask the lack of heart.’_ What does that even _mean_?“

“It means we fucked up,” Happy snaps from the couch, from where she’s curled in on herself and clutching at a cushion.

Toby doesn’t get it, because they _have_ poured their fucking heart into this okay, and they didn’t do all that fucking practise, all that _work_ and sign their souls away for it to hit _twenty-nine_. Walt’s words have come back to bite them because, instead of being as popular as their latest single had been, it’s universally agreed that it’s a bit of a flop. It’s confounding and infuriating - especially because it’s _flawless_ damnit, even when examined objectively. If there was any possibility of a tour, it now seems less likely than ever; no-one is going to pay to just see them perform their one well-received song. Not when they all seem to think the rest of the album is _shit_. They spend an afternoon reading (and rereading) the various reviews and articles that have popped up all over the internet and worrying at the potential problems that have now arisen, problems that they had, perhaps naïvely, believed to be behind them.

Cabe eventually hauls them into a conference room and takes a long time ensuring they each know what is and _isn’t_ an acceptable response to a journalist and when they leave, hours later, it’s with their tails between their legs and a printed calendar of booked appearances for their regular circuit of bars and clubs and that’s that.

This time around, they throw themselves into rehearsals with a determination heretofore unmatched, even when they were spending days practising between hours spent in the studio. It’s a punishing regime, and it’s not hard to see how it affects them all. Walter becomes more driven and Sly, quieter, and even Toby himself feels restless and useless without the smooth polish of a guitar beneath his fingers and it’s weight against his neck.

It’s Happy that he worries about, though. He’s well-trained in dealing with Walt and Sly’s neuroses, but he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself when Happy retreats into herself and self-flagellates with a grueling practise schedule that leaves her ears _ringing_ , if her aversion to loud noises and chatter is anything to go by.

He finds her on the rooftop one early morning, curled up small against the wind, Sly quiet and still beside her. He is struck, suddenly, by the urge to say something comforting, or perhaps to wrap himself around her until the bitter winds stop blowing and the LA sunshine blankets the world in gold.

He retreats back into the apartment without a sound because anything else would have felt like an intrusion.

-x-

Christmas passes with little fanfare. It’s never mattered much to Toby, whose Christmases past are blurry days at the track and waiting out his mom’s eggnog-induced comas, and it’s a painful reminder of the family that didn’t care for Sly, that thought him broken and of little use, and Walter disappears for the day and always comes back worse for it, (but at least now he comes back with just the black mood, and not on the dazed high of smack). Happy seems on the surface to not even register the bright lights and the music, claiming it’s a bunch of commercialised crap, though he thinks he knows her well enough now to tell that’s a lie. He doesn’t call her out on it though because it passes. It passes quickly and quietly because it’s only a day in a lifetime full of days, and in the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter to them.

-x-

**January 2016**

They’re back at The Scorpion a little over a week later, and it’s a cruel sort of irony to be back in the same bar they’d come to to celebrate the creation of their first single, only this time, they’ve made an album and nobody cares and tiny little backstreet pubs might be all they’ll ever have. It’s a really fucking depressing thought though, so he turns to Sylvester, who looks nervous, (always, _always_ green in the face of the weekend crowd until he is up on stage), and tries to let himself be swept up with the excitement of the public. It’s a good bar, with good people, and perhaps he’s being fatalistic. This place could almost be their lucky charm, (a _talisman_ , you might say), if he just lets himself believe it.

He spies Happy and Sly setting up on stage, and Cabe is there too, and for once the strain tightening the skin around his eyes is nothing to do with the squabbles in the band. He seems tense, but he won’t say why and remains tight-lipped, and after badgering him for a minute, Toby goes to buy a round of drinks, something to take the edge off the nerves, to quell the jitters that seem to be crawling under his - under _everyone’s_ \- skin. The woman behind the bar is tall and pretty, and he thinks he vaguely recognises her from that night, drunk as he had been on success and cheap alcohol. He tells her as such and she laughs as she introduces herself as Paige, tells him that she’s a big fan, but not as big as her son Ralph, who positively _adores_ them, and plays their music so often she can practically sing it in her sleep.

“I love _It’s Part of My Process_ ,” she says as she accepts the twenty he hands her for the drinks, and Toby raises an eyebrow at that, because it’s the song that the critics had especially enjoyed ripping apart. She’s adamant though, and explains that no, _really_ , it’s got her favourite line in it, and proceeds to _sing_ a little of it back to him. It catches him off guard; her voice is sweet and a little smoky when she dips down low to match Walter’s tenor.

It’s her son’s favourite song too apparently, for the melody and the way it trips and falls. In fact, she adds with a bright smile, her son is in the back waiting for his babysitter to pick him up, would they mind terribly if he comes to say hello?

“That’d be nice,” Toby says absently, and he really believes it if it means he finally, _finally_ gets to meet someone who loves their work so innocently and wholeheartedly, even if he is just a child. So Toby rallies the troops, all a little breathless with anticipation, and dispatches Cabe to hunt down Walter, who had disappeared a few minutes after arriving. Ralph is quietly delighted, stares wide-eyed at their instruments and tells Happy sweetly that he’s glad that they found her because she’s very quick with her drumsticks and Toby chases away her smile and the _flip-flop_ of his heart with the last of his drink.

They are fifteen minutes from the start of their show when Cabe finally shows up again, Walter in tow; but instead of the jittery anticipation that normally rolls off Walter in waves, there is _nothing_. Nothing but hard lines and tense, frozen muscles. They distract Ralph with one of their guitars and a score from one of their to-be-released songs, and gather in a deserted hallway. They don’t have time for this, Toby knows, but there is something about Walt’s expression, the tension written across his body that makes them quiet and biddable for once, and they look at the frontman expectantly and with no little dread.

Walter, quietly like he has to fight to get the words out, says he is so very sorry to let them down but he can’t _sing_ (and well, _no fucking wonder_ Walter has been reticent all day, he can’t string a damn sentence together without his voice wavering and warbling), and Toby is righteously _furious_ when Walter turns to him. “Can you fill in?” he asks, like they haven’t had all day to cancel the damn gig.

Toby wants to punch him because like, fuck, “ _no_ ,” and Happy is prepared when he turns that piteous frown on her, says “ _fuck_ no,” and then there’s only Sly left, already shaking his head and looking a little desperate as he begs, “ _Walter, please, no!_ ”

Cabe stares at them, eyes wide with horror and looking absolutely appalled, and when he opens his mouth, what comes out isn’t chastising at all, but really a dazed, almost defeated utterance of, “There’s an agent here looking to sponsor a second album. Maybe a tour.”

There’s a Hollywood-esque moment as realization dawns upon them all and there’s an uptick in his pulse and his mind races as he desperately grapples for a solution, but there’s nothing to be found. They’ve no lead singer and this might really be their only chance to fix their mistakes and to really make something of themselves, but they can’t, because they’re not a fucking _orchestra_ , and apparently everyone else comes to the same conclusion because a second later, they’re all shouting at each other. Toby slumps against the wall behind him, and settles in to watch them all listlessly.

Happy is positively vibrating with fury. Her hands are clenched into fists and her skin draws tighter across her face with every retort she throws at Walter’s ideas and Sly panics. His eyes are wide with terror and disappointment and crushed dreams, and he’s timing his breathing aloud to the count of eight, even as he interjects, in the spaces between the end of one argument and the start of another, with the number of seconds they’ve got to figure this shit out before they have to be on stage. It’s not long. It’s not long at all, and Cabe is just stunned into sick silence.

Then there’s a half-beat where they all seemingly run out of steam or are too incensed to carry on screaming at each other and a little voice almost lost amidst the chaos pipes up.

“My mom sings. She should do it.”

Toby barks out a surprised laugh and he kind of has to hand it to the kid for thinking out of the box; hell, does this kid even know there _is_ a box? Paige leans down to Ralph, and explains to him with words soft and gentle that, “Honey, as much as I would love to save the day here, I can’t.”

He laughs at that. It’s a wild idea, it’s _crazy,_ but they’re fucked either way, right? So they might as well go for it, go for fucking gold and for a second, everybody looks at him like _he’s_ crazy, but there’s nothing left to lose. Happy is the first to say anything and she looks him straight in the eye, shrugs and says, “Might as well.”

Cabe sounds disbelieving as he rolls his eyes heavenward and tells everyone and no-one, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”  

Sly agrees, says over and over that it’s crazy because, “We are already on the verge here, guys, and this is insane you can’t actually - Walter, _wait!_ ” But Walter has already turned his back on Sly to demand that Paige sings something, and she seems confused, but Walter barrels on and snaps at her.

“Your son says you know all the words so can you do it? Can you sing?” He’s not exactly _polite_ about it, but maybe it’s because she’s caught off-guard or feeling pressured by all the god-damn puppy eyes Toby _knows_ they’re shooting her, but either way, she sings a bit - Toby sees Sly sag against a wall out of the corner of his eye, Happy’s mouth drops open, and Walter turns to them all, frantic and elated all at once as he tells them, “She can! She can sing, you guys!”

Paige bristles a little at that, tells them all very firmly that, “‘She’ has a name, you know,” and Happy scoffs and says, “I like her,” and when Walter speaks, voice hoarse, and asks her, “Will you do it? Please. Can you sing with us?” they all go quiet.

Paige bites her lip and stutters out how this is… well, it’s not a normal day for her and Toby can almost empathise. It really isn’t a normal day for them either. Something seems to decide her though. It could be the desperation hanging heavy in the air, sour and thick at the back of their throats, Walter’s pleading eyes, Sylvester’s hopeful smile or just their loud brash reasoning, (or maybe it’s the touch of Ralph’s hand on her arm and who says, “You should do it, mom,”), but she _agrees_ , and though her hands shake, her voice is firm when she says, “Where’s the setlist?”

-x-

For all that he had tried to persuade Paige to do it, (they had to have _someone_ singing for crying out loud, and it wasn’t going to be Walter and his grating mess of a voice), Toby hadn’t expected anything. In fact, with the knowledge that there was some bigwig in the crowd, he thought it’d be one last show for them before they’d be pushed into obscurity by their label until their contract expired. He’d expected them to crash and burn and to leave the stage feeling _done_ , and then he could take his shame with him and maybe try cash it all in at a poker table somewhere. Sylvester would cry and Walter would fall back into a drug habit and a host of strange beds and Happy…

He isn’t sure what he thought Happy would do, when all was said and done and there was nothing left to find in the music, but he suspects it would have involved more of that quiet sadness that’s become somewhat familiar since the release and piss-poor reception of their first album.

(He’d assumed they’d splinter and move out and move on, and maybe he’d considered pulling her into his space so he could breathe her in, tangle his fingers in her hair and tell her to call him. He thinks he’d miss her a lot, if she stopped being a part of his life.)

What he doesn’t expect is for Paige to take their songs, their wonderful, perfect, flawless songs and make them… make them _human._ She sings like their words _mean something_ to her; the lyrics are weighty burdens and the music waxes and wanes like the tide, and it rips them from her throat and washes the shores of the crowd with them. _Oh_ , Toby thinks, because it’s startling to hear what was missing from their album laid out in front of them, _one, two, three_ , and the critics were right, because Paige? Paige sings their songs and gives them _heart_.

She takes to the stage like a natural, _owns_ it in a way Toby thinks none of them ever have. (They’re all guilty of seeing it as a means to an end, where the music had mattered but the listeners not so much. To them, an audience was a product of the show, not the beat and breath of it all.) Here on stage, after so many weeks of practise, their beats and chords and jives are automatic - but they find themselves slowing the tempo with the smooth whisky of Paige’s voice, lowering the pitch when she does, scaling up to chase her notes, and it feels as easy as being.

And as they work their way through the setlist, it’s easy for Toby to lose himself in it, the music, in a way he never has unless he is listening to the classics and he normally focuses on the feel of the frets and the twang of the strings and the vibrations of the bass rippling through his wrists, but at the moment it doesn’t even register because the music envelops his body and enchants him, and for once it feels a little less like a science and a little bit more like an art. It’s something he pours himself into, not the focus he usually puts forth to being perfect, and definitely not a checklist imitation of the good and the greats. And from there, they flow, like they’ve been doing it like this from the beginning, into the next song, and the next, (and the next), until the hours have flown by and they are drawing the gig to a close.

When they stumble off stage and into each other’s arms and excitement, Walter stares blankly at Paige, a little like he’s been hit over the head with a brick, and Toby spins himself in widening circles before he stops, turns to them all, and simply says, “That was the best it ever went.”

-x-

They spend the next few days tied up in meeting after meeting because, as it turns out, somebody had recorded their gig and posted it on Youtube and the video is halfway to ‘viral’ status just twelve hours later. There’s something of a media shitstorm that follows and every magazine on the West coast is vying for a quote or five, wondering who Paige is and speculating further changes to the lineup. Paige is also called along to a conference, and another, and Toby is elated beyond measure when the offer of a second album and a tour becomes official, but he’s also vehemently against the caveat that Paige joins them as a lead singer.

-x-

**_Homeland Security - Further Lineup Changes  
_ ** _Due to popular demand following a recording of a recent performance that went viral, it is with great pleasure that Homeland Security and Agent Records can now announce that Paige Dineen will now be included in the official band lineup._

_Miss Dineen, 29, and also from Los Angeles, is ‘delighted’ and ‘flattered’ that, by unanimous agreement, such an opportunity has been extended, and that she, and bandmates Walter, Sylvester, Toby and Happy, (who also joined the band late last year), are currently working on the band’s second album, (which will also be produced by Agent Records)._

_Paige will be joining the band as frontwoman and lead singer, replacing Walter, who previously held the position, and who will now be focussing solely on his work as an electric guitarist, and providing back up vocals as needed._

-x-

It feels to him like the dust is finally settling, like the winds are finally dying down after that night at The Scorpion, and they can _breathe_ now, once ink is put to paper for Paige. It’d taken a while to discuss recording times and tour dates and schedules now that they have Ralph to consider, and for a week or so, it seems like the furore has died down. He’s wrong, of course; and it turns out that that was merely the calm before the _fucking shitstorm_.

They’re still attracting quite a bit of media attention, the grainy video from the bar slipping into the charts at number 14, and it’s apparently of ‘paramount importance’ that they ‘take advantage of the current favourable situation and prepare for the release of a second album’. Toby doesn’t pay attention to a lot of the pretentious suit-speak, but he later learns it means that the interviews? The articles? The radio appearances? They have a _week_ to prepare for those. In the meantime, they have an album to write.

Except, no matter what Cabe says, it’s not as easy as that.

By ~~mutual~~  silent agreement, (Cabe’s orders), Paige arrives at the apartment early the next morning so they can maybe start getting to know one another and also come up with some sort of semblance of a game plan. Which is to say they spend the next three days carefully sizing Paige up and tearing each other’s half-hearted lyric suggestions down. There’s a beautiful irony in there somewhere, Toby’s sure.

They don’t make plans to work on the fourth day because, as long as their to-do list is, they’re also fucking bored of seeing each other and exhausted from the careful tension they maintain whenever Paige is around. It’s not that they don’t _like_ her, she’s just _other._ She has a child, a job, a life outside the band and Toby can’t help but feel threatened by her. She’s an unpredictable variable, and Happy is stoic and Sly is nervous and Toby is just sullen and snappish. They’re all very surprised when she shows up on the fourth day, Ralph in tow, and tells them they’re going to play a boardgame.

“Come on, guys,” she says, “it’ll be fun!”

Toby scoffs because the last time he found a boardgame ‘fun’ he was probably six and still thought gambling was a normal family pastime. It’s a stupid idea, and Walter seems to agree.

“Fun is not what we need right now. What we need is _songs_ , unless you’ve all forgotten about the interview in three days.”

Toby hasn’t forgotten about the interviews and he doubts anyone else has earlier. Sylvester is twitchier than ever, and Toby’s been preoccupied as of late, busy nursing his own low level anxiety, and not a small amount of dread. Paige remains firm though, and she deploys Ralph like a weapon until even Walter has been swayed by his big, blue eyes and hopeful smile, and nobody is even annoyed at being so easily manipulated, because Ralph just beams at them when they start bickering over which Monopoly pieces they want to play with.

They do, however, eventually begin and it’s easygoing at first - there’s a casual nonchalance they all adopt even as they watch each other suspiciously, and there is more than one referral to the rule book before they all settle into the rhythm of the game.

It doesn’t take very long for it all to go to shit though because, naturally, they start to snipe at each other. They needle and mock and obsess over each other’s every move, and suddenly, Toby is berating Ralph for his ‘poor business decisions’ and Sylvester is accusing Walter of cheating because _of course it’s against the rules to assist Paige, this is **not** a team game, Walter!_

There are scattered ‘Chance’ cards and debates over the relevance of the ‘income tax’ and Sylvester is insisting that Toby’s get-out-of-jail-free card undermines the entire justice system and is the very foundation of anarchy, and perhaps Monopoly would have been the worst idea ever, except for the way Happy is leaning against Sly and fiercely fighting his corner, throwing plastic hotel pieces at Walter as she insults him, her proclamations of _dirty, lying, cheater_ made soft and breathless with giggles.

There’s a rant from Walter about the housing market and global economic downturn and Paige, bless her, so hesitant and overwhelmed in the beginning, refutes all accusations with a straight face and a snarky _did you read my analysis report_ as she scoops up the last of the utilities and charges Sylvester a triple-dice rent.

It’s not quite the perfect combination of reactants or a finished equation, but it’s enough for Toby to pause to take it all in and think _maybe this could actually work,_ and after the money runs dry and Sly wins (and _God,_ Happy lights up when he does), writing feels a little less like pissing into the wind.

-x-

It takes time to find stretches in their new little group to accommodate Paige, but little by little, they all fall into one another, and it starts to feel a little easier, even though it’s still hard to exist when they’ve been thrust into an unwavering, unblinking spotlight. It’s even harder because they’ve never had this before, being papped on the street and _fans_ hanging around outside their studio, and it’s like _what the hell,_ right? But whereas Toby (and, let’s face it, everyone else) skitters inside, not knowing how they’re supposed to react to these kids, Paige seems to be a natural here too, smiling and asking them how their day was and it’s clear they love her dearly already.

And on top of impromptu fanmeets outside their recording studio (and once even outside their garage - and boy did that freak Walter out), they’re being pushed from one journalist to the next, even as they juggle writing and recording an album, and testing their weight against the new bonds between them, because the record label is committed to ‘maintaining public interest’.

They’re told where to be and what to say until the days blur into one, a melting pot of conferences and interviews (plain sailing now with Paige to smooth over their rough edges), and writing (scribbled against napkins and forearms, but surprisingly easy, like a dam has burst between them), and rehearsals, where Ralph watches them, eager and bright-eyed and paying more attention to the soundboard than his homework whilst they work out the details of it, the ‘amazing second album’ they’ve had to promise their fans - the one they haven’t, you know, actually _finished_ yet.

But it gets easier every day, to make things work as they let Paige settle into the cracks of their skin, making her a part of _them_ and Toby learns to love that she’s shouldering these exciting responsibilities with them- even when she throws Toby the most severe looks when he swears in front of Ralph, and he finds himself in the novel position of having to check his language around him.

(He makes an extra effort to ‘mind his tongue’ after the first time Happy cuffs him sharply round the ear, doesn’t even retort with ‘you could mind my tongue for me’, even though he wants to - he really, _really_ wants to.)

One day, after a long session in their studio (so familiar now, Toby could tell you where each and every stain paints the walls and the floors and knows intimately the smooth patches of the tables where his hands rest, he watches as Paige leans on Sylvester’s shoulders to peer down at the chords he’s writing, and is startled to feel everything slowly grind into place, like two tectonic plates.

-x-

**March 2016**

It’s the last in a long line of interviews at the end of an even longer day, but it’s with Rolling Stone, a few questions and their first photoshoot, and they’re all a little excited for it, giddy during their prep session and almost impossible during a two minute wardrobe change that takes closer to ten.

It’s a kind of a huge fucking deal, and Toby isn’t quite sure how they manage to calm themselves long enough for the mandatory pleasantries and introductions, and isn’t surprised when he misses the photographer’s name completely. He’s pretty sure it’s something shitty and pretentious though, because it doesn’t take him long to call Happy and Paige over, and insert himself into their space with a hand at each of their waists. He leads them over to a drum set and a microphone and then it’s cameras flashing and _mood music_ and he’s telling them what to do, all _lean closer, honeys, you want to give the boys something to remember you by_ and _give me something smoky, a little risqué_ and _less anger, more sexy._ The taut edge of Paige’s polite smile and the half-panicked look Happy shoots Walter makes Toby feel a little sick, especially when the photographer pushes up close behind Happy and whispers something in her ear that eases her scowl, but makes her blush and squirm in her seat.

Things don’t really improve from there.

They’re a little subdued by the end of it all, and though the excitement lives on, (it’s fucking _Rolling Stone_ , and Toby has been dreaming of this moment for years, collecting the special editions like stamps and stowing them away in a box under his bed like hidden treasure), it’s been tempered a little by the photographer’s vulgarity, and they’re quieter afterwards as they troop off to a posh looking office where an older man waits, his smile bright and eyes hidden behind lenses too dark for a day spent indoors.

He shakes all of their hands, tells them to call him Jacob and he seems nice. He’s polite and engaging and so very clearly enamoured with Paige, who laughs at his jokes. He discusses their new album with Walter, tells anecdotes of his own children to Sylvester, mentions that they’re of similar ages, and talks music like he understands the need to wrap themselves up in pitch and tempo, and they all relax into it, poking fun and sharing stories like he’s an old friend.

He leans forward across the desk then, says, “So Happy, the question that’s been on everybody’s mind, how _did_ you get the job? Because you _did_ join the band to replace ex-member Mark Collins, didn’t you?”

There’s a beat and the atmosphere sours a little as his words register and they all go still and silent. Toby’s confused and shocked at the implications of his brazen question, and he’s furiously backtracking over the past few seconds of conversation, looking for a misstep and feeling like he’s missed something huge.

“Excuse me?” Happy eventually says, and she sounds smaller than usual, confused and soft and hurt. Toby stares, they all do, when Jacob leers at Happy, and teases her.

“Come on,” he says, an eyebrow raised expectantly and his pen poised. “We all know how exceptional Mark was, and with him leaving just days before you arrived... I, er, actually went to speak to Mark yesterday, to see what he thinks about his replacement.”

Happy flounders at his line of attack, her mouth opening and closing but no sounds comes out, and it’s Walter who speaks next, snaps, “And what did _he_ have to say for himself?” Toby knows it’s the wrong thing to ask when Jacob’s smile grows, and when he takes off his sunglasses, his eyes are dark and intrigued and malicious.

“He simply suggested that I ask Happy herself. He did, however, agree that it’s a little odd to pretend Happy got in ‘on talent alone’, I think was the phrase he used. What do you think of the matter, Miss Quinn?”

“That’s _preposterous_ ,” Walter says, and even Sly, quiet, shy, anxious Sly is frowning at the man, and looking angrier than Toby has ever seen him as he stutters out something in defence of Happy, something about how skilled and passionate she is, but he’s ignored as Jacob turns his full attention on Walter then.

“Well, Mr O’Brien,” he says, looking rather too much like a shark, “It’s widely known that you, ah, _appreciate_ the company of drummers. Our readers were just wondering if Miss Quinn was the next to take your fancy.”

There’s another pause, and Toby blinks at this man, who had charmed them all so effortlessly so as to write an _exposé_ , and suddenly he is vibrating with outrage and blind fury, because yeah, he doesn’t know the exact details (like he knows now, that Walter and Happy? Go _way_ back, and that they had lost touch, and then A.M: after Mark, she’d shown up again), but he’s seen the way Walter and Happy interact, knows that what they have is untouched by sex - it’s something warm and _ridiculous_ ; it’s her bullying Walter into cleaning out the fridge and it’s Walter tiptoeing past her room in the mornings lest he wakes her, and squabbling over the last bag of potato chips.

He nearly stands up then, wants to _pummel_ the greasy haired fuck until his face is an unrecognisable mush, but Paige stops him with a hand against his arm, and when he looks at her, her expression stills his limbs - it’s ice cold where moments previously it had been warmth and awe at being where she is. Her gaze is disdain and contempt, but her features are still arranged into something pleasant, and she cuts the man down in three seconds, gives a polite little cough before she speaks.

“I’m sorry, I believe there’s been some miscommunication? Only I was led to believe this was a serious interview for Rolling Stone, not a page five spread for tabloid _trash_.” Jacob’s eyes go wide and his mouth hangs open. “I believe that’s everything?” She prompts, and there is a dark challenge in her eyes, and when he tries to disagree, stammers out _wha- no, I have a few m-,_ she cuts him off again, standing up and beckoning everyone else to follow her. Toby does so, too impressed, too terrified not to do what she wants. “I’m sorry, that’s all we have time for today. Perhaps we could reschedule sometime,” she finishes, sounding a lot like she’d rather _die_ than let that happen, and then she is storming out of the room in a mist of perfume and thinly veiled rage, and there’s not much to do other than follow her out of the room and away from the whole experience.

-x-

There’s a peculiar sort of tension to the rest of the day, where everyone rallies around Happy, who steadfastly refuses to acknowledge the entire incident, who watches The Flash with Sylvester and laughs at Walter as he tries to cook something more intricate than pasta, and _dares_ anyone to breathe a word on the subject. They leave her to it for the most part, but there’s no way she’s oblivious to Paige’s watchful eye or puppy dog eyes Sylvester sends her way, the way he tugs her under his arm and runs a gentle hand through her hair.

Walter’s clumsy care is evident as he serves up his omelette, badly burnt and over-salted, but coming from the man who pawned his vintage Ramones records because he would rather order expensive take-out with the cash than attempt to go near the hob, it speaks volumes. She’s not unaffected though, and it’s easy to see because she begs off back to her room straight after dinner and her smile looks like glass.

It’s hard to shake the memories though, and Toby lies in bed late that night, desperately trying not to picture her sitting back in that room, looking pale and wounded and trembling under the weight of Jacob’s questions. He blinks up at the ceiling as his skin _crawls_ and his heart twists uncomfortably in his chest. Before he can second guess himself, he’s stood outside Happy’s room, eyeing the shut door warily, one hand clutching an old box to his chest, the other hovering above the handle.

He’s half convinced she’s booby-trapped the door, and he is fearful for his eyebrows (and also his dick, if he’s being honest), and he’s genuinely surprised when the door gives way under his hand and he is not immediately rendered unconscious. It’s as easy to wake her up as he’d thought (although he had not been aware that he had suspected this), just a quiet utterance of her name and she’s rearing up in bed, her eyes wide and dark and inquisitive as she studies him. He doesn’t know what she finds in his face, but when he gestures to her bedroom door and says _come on_ , she follows him through the apartment, out of the door and into the garden with very little fuss.

“ _Well_ ,” she demands, as she hops from foot to foot in the chill and eyes the box he’s still got tucked to his chest. He flips it open and stares down at his treasured magazines and he is suddenly reminded of the hours spent flicking idly through the articles as he built elaborate realities where _he_ was the one being quoted, papped, _adored_ , and he can’t help but feel reluctant to destroy the physical manifestation of everything he’s ever wanted, even as her gaze bores into his head.

“I just need a second,” he says, and half smirks when she scoffs at him and tells him that he’s _a child,_ because she’s looking at him like he’s something curious and dangerous, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Toby puts the box on the ground and fumbles in his pockets for a box of matches he’d hastily grabbed, and strikes one against the box. It ignites for a second before the flame flickers in the wind and dies and Toby curses quietly, and grabs a second match. _You don’t have to do this_ , she says, sounding like the words are being ripped from her, and when he looks up at her, she looks a little frantic in the moonlight, and he has to take a second to breathe before he can reply.

“Yes, I do,” he tells her, his voice quiet and thick with the bone-deep exhaustion that plagues him these days. “You say we have to take turns taking out the trash.” He turns back to the matches then and strikes another, but it’s only when she takes a step closer and cups her hands around his, thanks him quietly and sincerely, that the spark catches between them and holds. When he drops the match into the box, it catches quickly and when it’s done, the last of the pages curling and withering into nothing but embers, he sits back on his haunches and watches as she softens, and that tension she carries with her seems to fall away.

She’s exhausted, he can tell, a little wan, but there’s a tiny smile tucked away at the corner of her mouth (and he wonders, for a moment, what it would take for him to draw that to the forefront, until she smiles big and wide again), and it’s enough for now.

When the cold begins to seep in from beneath them and there’s nothing left to watch except for the ash and dust crumbling apart, they drag themselves up from the grass, damp with dew, and by silent agreement, they make no move to return to bed, instead they lean against the brick wall and stare up at the sky. They point out constellations to one another, ones they know at first, and when they run out, they start making up their own, ones that no one will see but them, (little Ferret Bueller, who drew out the poison from Achilles, and a grilled cheese sandwich that almost bought down governments) and then they subside into it again, a comfortable, companionable silence that drapes over them like gossamer.

Under that inky sky, Toby is happy to let that silence draw on, to let the wind blow the rest of the soot and smoke away. But then Happy clears her throat, a little awkwardly. “I didn’t, you know,” and there’s a beat where Toby’s brain struggles to catch up. “I didn’t sleep with Walter.” There’s nothing in her tone, nothing biting or defensive. It’s just a statement of fact, though she steadfastly continues to look up at Orion and not at him. Toby looks at her, watches half-shadows fall across the contours of her, and wishes fiercely that he could stand between the world and her, if just for a moment. She blinks slowly, sleepily, and after a lengthy pause, he follows her gaze up towards the stars.

“I know.”

(And he means it, he really does.)

-x-

They sing and perform in pubs and clubs and once or twice they are the warm up act to bigger bands, and at the same time, they’re still scribbling lyrics on the backs of setlists and on their phones in the van, and their flat is covered in loose notes and post-its. It’s only when, at Paige’s insistence, they start carrying around proper notebooks that the writing process starts to make a bit more sense.

They’re in the van one afternoon, being ferried to and from interviews by Cabe, and they’re engulfed in a sleepy sort of silence, save for Walter’s soft snores and the _scritch-scratch_ of pen against paper. Toby’s half asleep, his hat pulled down over his eyes, but he catches the shuffle of movement, and Sly’s voice, quiet and awed when he breaks the silence to say, “Happy, that’s _amazing.”_

She must jump about a mile high in her seat because the van rocks with the motion of it and her voice is shrill and tight when she snaps at him, says _Jesus fucking Christ, Sly_ and _you nearly gave me a heart attack!_ He opens an eye at that, and is just able to peek a glimpse of her from under the brim of his hat. She looks angry, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look at Sly like that before. She usually spares the scowling for him, or Walter when he’s being an asshole. Sly just leans further forward in his seat to peer over her shoulder, emphatic in his insistence that, “No, Happy, really that’s _amazing._ Paige? You have to see this!”

Paige hums, distracted from her thoughts, but she leans forward too, asks _what’s up?_ and Toby regrets hiding away in the back of the van for a nap when Happy, between shooting half-panicked, half-suspicious glances in his direction, begrudgingly passes Paige a notebook. There’s a tense few minutes where he thinks Sly grins at Paige and Happy directs her gaze up at the roof of the van, and stares at it like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen, even as Paige hums a few short melodies against the lyrics, whisper-sings _I guess we’re nothing more than broke, aimless losers; we’ve gotta accept it and pull the ripcord_. There’s a second when the van goes silent again before Paige gives a breathy little laugh before she sobers, tells Happy, “It’s _amazing_ , but it’s so _sad_. It feels so real,” she says, and Toby can almost imagine her wide-eyed stare and concerned frown.

Happy gives a noncommittal sort of shrug that he can just about catch, like the words mean nothing to her, _they’re just lyrics_ , and Paige and Sylvester both sit back in their seats like that’s that. Toby’s not quite ready to accept that though, and he stores the lyrics away in his brain, runs through them over and over again for the next week, and wonders what happened to her to make her so jaded.

-x-

There’s been a certain few melodies and chords, half-formed, in his head that he just can’t get out, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself, and there’s a buzzing that settles beneath his skin, and grows more persistent with every second it goes ignored. He retreats into his room on a Thursday, too many lost trains of thought and forgotten conversations to last another second without the silence and solitude to figure it out into something tangible.

He loses himself for days on end, is told later that they had to drag him out to interviews where he was distracted, couldn’t recall the question by the time it was only halfway asked, and that when they tumbled back into the flat, he made a beeline for his room. He vaguely recalls Paige asking Walter what’s up with him, and the last thing he hears before he shuts the door is Walter explaining he’s going down the rabbit hole. He forgets the existing world altogether, doesn’t know how long he’s gone for until afterwards because the days just sort of blur into one long mess of skipped meals and notes and the matching up of melody and rhyme and refrain.

(Happy tells him quietly, months later, that he was like a zombie, all monosyllabic answers to the band when he did eventually have to crawl out of his room for sustenance, before he wandered off again, halfway through conversations and discussions.)

He doesn’t remember a lot of it, but he knows that nothing had mattered but the music; not his mother’s illness, not his father, not anything. He was just _lost_ in it, the feeling of accomplishment and of being in the _now_ (nothing but lyrics and tempo and feeling distinctly _grey_ , and one moment of clarity in the fog of it all when he had been in the kitchen and she had been sat at the table, and as he brushed past her, she had tangled their fingers together and asked him if he was _okay_ ).

He is so proud of it, when he finally emerges from his fugue, emotionally drained and _starving_ , but he doesn’t even go for the poptarts at first, nothing enters his mind but to show them all this song he’s painstakingly stitched together beat by beat. He just rounds them all up and presses play. When he proudly presents it, happy and pleased, there’s a few seconds of stunned silence before anyone speaks up, and the words“...what, this is _shit_ ,” echo in the living room.

-x-

They practice like _crazy_ in the following weeks, with an album in their pocket, managers at their back and no real rehearsal time, it’s all they _can_ do to corner each other in what little downtime they have, working out the kinks in twos and threes and hoping that the alterations they make are enough to do it properly this time, to make something worth being proud of. And they end up making a lot of sacrifices for it, when they’re running vocals in the studio over and over again at three in the morning and they’re all running on little to no sleep at all, (but it’s a good kind of tired, Toby thinks. There’s a goal in sight, a real one, and every second he can feel himself coiling tighter and tighter in on himself in anticipation).

It’s late when he wakes up from his nap - not that there’s windows in the studios anyway - but his bones feel weary so he’s not surprised when he checks his phone and sees it’s just gone 4am. His eyes prickle with exhaustion and he’s bleary and a little confused as to what woke him up, except when he adjusts to the low lighting, he sees Happy in her customary position at the soundboard. She’s got her legs tucked up against her chest as she loops another song over and over again, and he doesn’t have to look to know her fingers are bitten to the quick. Toby recalls seeing her a little like this (however many months ago), obsessing over a ticking noise that wasn’t even there, and thinks that it’s a little funny, how he notices things about her in twilight hours.

It’s not, he tells himself, like he might have this _thing_ , this connection with Happy (because he doesn’t, she is just a bandmate, a _friend_ , one who kicks him when he makes sleazy jokes and smirks when ladies shut him down on nights out), it honestly is that it always occurs when it’s quiet and hushed, and the world doesn’t see them.

When he sees her, as the song comes to a sombre end (and oh, he realises that’s _her_ song, the one she wrote), and sees her surreptitiously run a hand across her face, he squirms, feels a little uneasy, and he wants to do _something_ ; wants to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear or something, to move over and sit as they were sat, what, half a year ago? He doesn’t though, because he recalls the way she shied away, somehow _knows_ she’d waited for them all to fall asleep before working on it, on her song, and remains as he is, lying supine on the couch and just traces the line of her jaw with his eyes, the slope of her spine as she flips switches and twists dials.

There’s something here, he begins to realise, something he hasn’t noticed, but he doesn’t know _what_ yet.

-x-

**April 2016**

The weeks seem to fly by, and Toby feels like he barely has time to catch his breath as this thing they all have snowballs, and suddenly it’s March and it’s all coming to a head with the release of their second album ‘ _Cyclone Means Family_ ’. It’s been three days of near radio silence, save for Cabe’s quick updates, but he’s not exactly forthcoming with the sales figures, so on the Friday, they’re all sat in the den and biting their nails as the first week’s chart countdown is announced. They’re all nervous, and honestly, you could cut the tension in the room with a fucking knife, because they are all remember it, _twenty-nine_ , can see the reviews again behind the backs of their eyelids, and Toby is suddenly very certain, despite his previous confidence, that it’s going to bomb.

”It’s going to bomb”, Sly announces gloomily, and Toby starts having an internal freak out because _oh my god he is a portent of fucking doom_ , he _thought_ it, and then Sly _said_ it, and it’s _goodbye fame and fortune and immeasurable success. It was nice to dream about you_. But just when a full breakdown and explosive tantrum seems imminent, Paige turns, takes Sly’s hand and smiles, because _it’s the greatest album she’s ever heard_ and _they’d be mad to not see that_.

It helps a little, and Toby breathes again, takes in Cabe and Walter sat staring at the radio in hilariously identical poses. He thinks in any other time, with any other pressing problems at hand, that would be an amazing instagram photo, but his hands are shaking and he feels sticky and cold with sweat.

He’s almost sure he’s about to throw up, his stomach rolling uncomfortably and saliva gathering behind his teeth when Happy, who has been pacing back and forth the room, throws herself onto the couch where Toby is sat, squeezing herself in between him and the arm, in what’s maybe the smallest space ever. It stays him for a moment as he considers her, and thinks that’s the closest she’s ever been to needing one of them before and when he thinks that, his heart launches itself against his ribcage (because she is practically curling into him, and there is so much _contact_ and warmth and curves that his brains stutters).

Toby holds his breath, and feels everyone in the room do the same thing, but then there is an explosion of noise and movement ( _oh my god we’ve done it yes I can’t believe it_ ), but he’s slow on the draw, confused and shocked and still caught up in Happy, so he hums asks, _what did I miss_ in a voice too low to be heard over the din. When she turns to him, eyes fucking _sparkling_ (Jesus fucking _Christ_ since when do they do that?) and so exquisite, he forgets what he has asked, and they both freeze, end up staring at each other as everyone celebrates around them, and her smile is shy and sweet and just for him.

He wants to move, to scoop her up into his arms and bury his face in her curls, but she’s _gone_ , dragged up from the couch by Sly, who throws her over his shoulder and starts fucking _dancing_ with her like she’s a particularly volatile sack of potatoes, and she’s shrieking and laughing and also maybe crying a little bit, but they all are really, Paige squeezing Walter and Ralph so hard it looks _painful,_ and even Cabe looks a little tearful, but so very proud, so nobody says anything about it.

(Later that evening, after too many shots and not nearly enough water, and their album playing on repeat - because why the fuck not? They deserve it - Toby finds himself slowly sliding down the wall he’s leaning against and hitting the floor with a thud that sounds like it’ll be painful tomorrow. He’s so very tired from all the excitement, and he lets his body melt into the floor, basks in the fruits of their labor and drinks in the laughter and shouting of the others.

He watches Cabe spin in slow circles, Ralph balanced precariously on his toes, and chokes on nothing at all when he sees Paige laughingly teaching Walter the rudimentaries of street dancing. Sylvester twirls happy around and around until the final strains of _I Wanna Be Rich, Just Once_ die away until, exhausted and giggly, Happy manages to make her way to where Toby is nearly lying on the floor, upper body only just propped up, and flops into his lap which - and (even in his drunken state) he freezes, because _oh._ She’s laughing as she mutters nonsense into his shirt, breathing Jack Daniels accented breath onto his neck and wriggling around like she’s trying to get comfortable, and _shit_ , he should be way too drunk to be aroused, except _he kind of is_ , and he cants his hips away as best he can, tries to still her with his hands as he tells her off, mutters _Happy no, stop wriggling_ into her temple as he shoots frantic looks at Cabe and Walter, both too distracted to notice.

And when she pulls herself up what feels like hours later, dances into Walter’s arms and encourages him to show off his new moves, Toby remains frozen for a long time, too busy nursing a boner as he watches her, and desperately trying not to read into it.)

-x-

They float through the next few weeks in something of a daze, because they have dreamt about this for so long, have wanted this more than anything in the world, and now it’s suddenly _here_.

Their album charts at eight, continues to climb, and there is so much attention focused on them now, it’s actually a little frightening. Except it’s also kind of fucking _awesome_ because Toby’s instagram rockets up, his vine followers double, triple, _quadruple_ and shows no sign of slowing down. He celebrates in spectacular style by convincing Sly to pin Walter down whilst Toby attacks him with a helium balloon. He has Ralph film the whole thing, and edits it all together into a six second documentary that ends with Walter frowning at the camera, his hair is a staticky messand sporting a ridiculous pout. It’s stupidly popular and he is astounded by the amount of re-vines it gets, and so he tries experimenting, each vine he makes more pointless and obscure than the last.

One day, he shoves a banana into Happy’s hands, and she just stares at it in confusion. The last few seconds are blurry, an unfocused view of the floor as he can be heard cracking up with laughter. He starts a series of vines mocking the band, steals Cabe’s aviators or Walter’s favourite tie and stands in front of a mirror and pulls his best imitation, voice gravelly when he introduces himself as Cabe, quick and pointed as he quotes Walter.

He steals Happy’s jacket one morning, and pretends he hasn’t seen it when she starts tearing through the apartment (and yeah, she’s _pissed_ when her Twitter feed explodes with the video, spends a good ten minutes screaming at him because “God you’re such a fucking _man-beast!_ You’ve stretched it, you ass!”) and a few instagrams of soundboarding with Ralph get a huge amount of likes. (And he isn’t surprised, because the kid’s got some serious talent.)

-x-

One day, they get invited on to the Ellen Degeneres show, which _holy fuck? What is their life right now?_ Cabe orders them to remain, if they can, on their best behaviour. Toby feels like the order might actually be aimed at him, and he smirks because _please Cabe, when has my behaviour ever been less than positively angelic,_ to which Cabe just snorts at.

True to his word though, Toby does his best to not make any out of hand remarks on the night (conscious of the fact that his every move is _being filmed for national television_ ), and even Walter makes a passable attempt at polite conversation. Sly, though he had thrown up backstage moments before filming, smiles winsomely, charms the heck out of Ellen and elicits warm laughter from the audience when he fumbles over his own name. They talk about how excited they are for their upcoming tour, talk about how the prep for that is going, how wonderful it is that their second album is doing so well.

And when Ellen asks them each which of the songs from it are their favourites, they all go solemn as they answer in turn, say _This is Amateur Hour_ or _Made You Look_ or _Get Out of My Face_. Sly says his favourite is _One Thing That’s Worth The Risk_ , a sweet little ditty he wrote for someone special, he explains, and they all take turns to pinch his cheek and ruffle his hair affectionately, even if he won’t say who the lucky lady is.

And when they perform, and the audience clap and cheer and sing along with them, Toby’s heart feels fit to burst.

-x-

They spend the days and weeks after on cloud nine, and Toby loves every second of it. He spends a lot of time feeling like his body is too small, too constrictive for how _happy_ he is, and he doesn’t know quite what to do with himself, so he spends a lot of time prodding Walter and needling at Paige to shake the excess energy.

He’s messing around with Sly one day, half-wrestling him even as the stumble into their apartment, almost tripping up over the neat rows of shoes in the hallway. They’re shouting and giggling raucously at one another, voices way too loud for indoors, and Toby tugs on the ends of Sly’s hair and makes to shove him into the kitchen door frame when his eyes catch on Happy curled up on herself at the table, her laptop open in front of her and this strange, angry-sad- _hurt_ look on her face. Toby’s laughter peters out, and sensing that the fun’s over, Sly’s does too as he turns to see what Toby’s staring at.

“What’s up?” Sly asks, but she shrugs, slams her laptop closed and tells them that it’s _nothing_. Sly nods, a little uneasily, and Toby follows suit. That too-happy feeling is gone though, because whatever it was that she says doesn’t matter had put that horrible look in her eyes.

-x-

**June 2016**

Things get a little more crazy, and Cabe a lot more harried, throughout May as various men and women in suits run around with clipboards and iPads, and suddenly it’s June and they’re making final preparations for a _cross-country tour_ and everybody is losing their shit about it. They’re locked in a lecture hall with Cabe, (they can’t be trusted with conference rooms anymore after the ‘chair olympics’ debacle), and he’s gone a bit overboard, in Toby’s humble opinion, if the fucking _powerpoint_ is anything to go by.

“Where the hell is Walter?” Cabe demands, his voice cutting through their chatter, but he’s met with shrugs mostly, and a raised eyebrow from Happy, and he seems to take the hint because he starts muttering under his breath about _band meetings being for the entire band._ Sly pales at his words and raises a hand, even as he stumbles through an elaborate explanation of why he has to leave early, _just this once_. Toby sniggers at Cabe’s expression because Sly is a fucking god-awful liar and Cabe sees right through it. He waves a hand though, like he can’t be bothered with any of their shit anymore and turns back to the slides that are being projected onto the blank wall at the front of the hall, and Toby sighs, long and loud.

“Why are we even doing this? Everything is practically done and nobody _cares_ about posters. Look, Happy, do _you_ care?” Happy pushes him out of her space with a hand on his face, and he’s only half-tempted to bite her fingers in retaliation. It’s answer enough, and he turns back to Cabe who shooting his patented death-stare in Toby’s direction. “Happy doesn’t care,” he says, and he’d be lying if he didn’t smile when she finally speaks up from beside him, tells him that she also _doesn’t care if Cabe takes out a loaded gun_ and that _he’d be doing the world a favour,_ because it’s such a _her_ thing to say, and it means she’s not distracted or upset by whatever it was he and Sly interrupted so many weeks ago.

(He’s been keeping an eye on her for a while now, but she seems... Good. A little distant, perhaps, but she still wraps herself up around Sly when she’s tired and needles Walter into skipping Thai food for pizza for the third time that week, so the distance feels normal. Just Happy being Happy.)

Paige interrupts any retort he’d been ready to make, all sweetness and light as she rallies them back around to the topic at hand. “Come on, guys,” she says in that voice she uses on Ralph. “This is important.” Toby hates that voice, because it never fails to make him feel like he’s being a dick. “What do you think of this one?” she asks as she clicks through the images and settles on something dark and artsy-looking, but doesn’t make their _brand_ look like something a 14 year old came up with. It’s passable and Happy seems to think so too. Sly looks set to disagree though, frowning at the image and looking almost offended, but his serious face disappears when the door swings open and Walter returns. Sly jumps up, concerns forgotten as he leaves in an anxious flurry of words. _Oh, I forgot I have something I need to- I’ll be back in a few hours I promise- Don’t use that pic-_ he manages to get out before the door slams shut behind him.

Cabe starts shuffling his papers together and turning his laptop off. “We’re all in agreement then?” Everybody nods, even Walter, though he clearly has no idea what he’s agreeing to. “Well, that’s as prepared as we’re gonna get,” he says. “You’ve got three days to get yourselves sorted before we leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And, as promised, they set off early on a Saturday morning, the sunrise in their rearview mirror, the open road in front of them and Cabe’s not-so-subtle threat of physical violence if they screw things up to keep them company. And then they’re away, on tour. Actually _on tour_ , and everyone is giddy with it, setting off from LA with all their hopes and dreams bundled in the back.

-x-

Tour as it turns out, is _nowhere near_ as glamorous as Toby had envisioned.

In his teenage fantasies as a _rock god_ he had not, for instance, thought that it would consist of cheap greasy burgers and dogs scoffed quickly in their bus on highway after _highway_ (or Paige bullying them into eating fresh fruit and making them set a good example. _For Ralph,_ she says when they try to put up a fight), with the sound of Walter’s voice in the background droning on as he walks Ralph through the principles of kinetic theory, (though they’ve all taken to helping Ralph with his schoolwork, and Toby would probably feel guilty about ripping him away from his school, but school sucks, tour doesn’t, and the kid didn’t seem to have many friends anyway).

Touring is tens of hours of prepping the stage, checking lighting and sound and discussing stage plans _over and over_ to inexperienced techies, followed by three hours of actually playing to the screams of adoring fans, and Toby loves every second of it.

They rock up to San Francisco, and proceed to stick their noses in to business that, if you asked the techs working on the set up, was not any of theirs. This is, Toby had pointed out to them, complete and utter _bullshit_ , seeing as they were the one’s playing and have an intimate knowledge of their music and the required acoustic levels.

“All I’m saying is that I can properly appreciate the intricacies of our _sound,_ whereas you’re probably relying on Wikipedia and an online college degree. I have an _innate ability_ for these things,” he says pointedly, even as the kid goes puce with rage. He expecting to be punched, which is why he is genuinely confused when the guy takes a deep breath and appeals to Cabe for ‘a little authority’, which, _rude_ , but Cabe just shrugs at the man.

“Kid’s got a point,” he says dryly. “What with being in the band and all.” The guy throws his hands up in the air, and stalks off the stage, and Toby decides he loves Cabe. Cabe walks off when Toby tells him this, but Toby’s pretty sure he loves them too, even if he doesn’t like to show it.

“You should play nice with the locals, dumbass,” Happy chides him, and when Toby looks up at the stage, she is leaning against her drums and watching him, smirking as she idly twirls a drumstick between her fingers. “We’re being paid to entertain them.” They’re the only band members still out front - the others having already scattered at the promise of five minutes free time - and Toby, a little bored, very jittery with pre-performance nerves (he is so very aware that in just an hour, the theatre will be packed with people who want to listen to _them,_ and _experience_ their music with them), is bothered by how calm she is. He sort of wants to push at her buttons, and see what she’d do, which is why he takes a step forward, crosses his arms atop the stage, and stares up at her.

“Why don’t you come down here and make me?” There’s a pregnant pause as she considers him, one eyebrow rising at the challenge in his tone, even as her lips quirk into a half-smile.

“I don’t think you really want me to do that,” she eventually says, and she sounds very certain, which is why Toby responds, as he watches her watch him, says _try me_ into the silence.

They both jump when a door slams behind them and Ralph appears stage left, voice quiet and solemn as he tells them that _mom says you have to eat and then get ready_ , and Toby would roll his eyes at Paige’s constant fretting, but Ralph is running over to Happy and grasping at her hand as he tugs her away, chattering a mile a minute and bouncing on his toes as he asks her about the resonance of her drums and migration patterns and population density, and Toby is left to trail after them through the winding corridors back to their dressing rooms.

Later that night, as he lies in bed, still antsy from the adrenaline rush of performing, all he can remember is the _rush_ and the _intensity_ of being on stage, the feel of his shirt, soaked through with sweat, clinging to his back, and the heady vibrations of the music against his skin.

And yeah, this was not how he had pictured being on tour growing up, but he’d honestly not have it any other way. Fruit and all.

-x-

It goes on like this, more tour and travel, squabbling over food, Sly requesting yoghurt every place they go, and having to pull in at every station stop on the road until Cabe puts his foot down. He starts frogmarching them all to the bathroom in turn and forcing them to go, even if they don’t need to, because _there’s no turning this bus around when we set off_. Walter sasses him then, grits out between his teeth that Cabe is _not_ their father. Cabe isn’t taking any more of their shit, apparently, because he slaps Walter upside the head, and without missing a beat, says, “I’ll stop acting like your dad when you stop acting like goddamn kids.”

The peace lasts as long as it takes for Cabe to disappear into the store and reappear with an armful of candy, because when he throws it all into the back of the van and they all scramble for it, something of a fight erupts between Happy and Walter, who both reached for the Twislers. In seconds they are rolling on the floor and Happy is furiously slapping Walter over and over, as he struggles to pin her wrists, and then Cabe is yelling at them, voice cutting through the bullshit like a _knife_ as he tells them to _shut the hell up!_

They all freeze and turn to him, and Happy uses the distraction to kick Walter in the shin and, when he yelps in pain, Happy snatches the candy from him and stands, victorious. Cabe growls, low in his throat, swears to _God_ he will _turn this damn bus around._ And Toby can’t help but pipe up, restless and bored as he is, and point out that, technically, Cabe is _contractually obliged to keep going forward_ and that he _thought you said we weren’t turning this bus around._

By the time Sly manages to control his giggles, he’s been banished to the back seats, and Ralph is sitting up front with Cabe, his hands tucked under his knees as he hums along to the radio, which is currently playing _That’s Not A Metaphor (I’m Just Stating A Fact About Breakfast)_.

-x-

They spend their nights after performances on the bus as it trundles down highways and city streets, all piled on the floor, unable to sleep when they’re still riding the adrenaline high and struggling to come down. They always end up in each other’s space, clinging to one another as they replay every line, every chord struck or note played, when and why the fans sang along the loudest.

They do this often enough that Cabe starts bringing them stuff to _do_ , like actual work stuff. Things they maybe come up with elaborate excuses to get out of (and it’s become a bit of a game to them, to see who can get away with the most ridiculous lies with nothing but a sweet grin or a bit of a pout. It’s all very _dog ate my homework_ ), that consists of stuffing their own ‘tour’ CDs into sleeves, signing and rolling up posters, and scrawling their names across t-shirts for fans.

It’s on one such night, late and dark and after the conversation has finally died down, and Ralph has finally succumbed to the late hour and the steady rumble and sway of the bus, has fallen asleep with his head on Happy’s thigh that Paige speaks up. “You sure you don’t want me to move him to his bed?” Happy, who has been running her fingers through Ralph’s hair absently with one hand as she scrawls her name across poster after poster with the other, looks up at Paige, a little startled. She blinks once, twice, as if she’s lost in her own world before her expression clears.

“No, he’s cool here,” she assures Paige, “I don’t mind at all.” She means it, Toby knows, and it’s all he can do to not just sit there and watch her as she signs her name on autopilot, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she looks down at the kid every so often as he snuffles into her leg, or twitches in response to whatever it is he sees in his sleep. Paige turns back to her CDs and they’re all settling into the silence and the slip-slide of pens against paper when Happy speaks again. “I always found it easier to sleep like this too,” she offers as she adjusts Sly’s jacket over Ralph’s shoulders, “It was always safer to nap during the day, when the home was quieter.” Toby pauses, pen frozen midway through the _u_ in _Curtis_. In all the weeks and months he has known Happy now, he can count on one hand the number of times she has voluntarily contributed anything about her past - and worries, irrationally, that Paige will say something that Happy will take offense to, that Walter will make a remark to make her clam up, that Sly will offer her an apology she doesn’t want to hear.

Walter looks up from the CDs he has been systematically shoving into the sleeves ( _inefficient_ , he had declared to Cabe, when they could just project a link to an MP3 download to the screen behind them. Cabe hadn’t given a fuck about efficiency though, and Toby’s mostly sure he’d doubled the number of CDs just to spite them all) with a frown. “The Jacksons?” There’s a note of tight disapproval in his voice, and Toby doesn’t know if it’s for Happy or ‘the Jacksons’, but Happy just regards Walt with an impassive stare.

“Yeah,” she replies shortly, and her body tenses up - enough so that Ralph shifts a little in his sleep and Happy looks down at him, makes a visible effort to relax again. Walter flicks his eyes down at Ralph, clearly tamps down on whatever it is he wants to say.

“Okay,” he says after a short, but very awkward pause, before he turns his attention back to the cds. Toby doesn’t know what passes between them in those few seconds following, but Paige clearly picks up a little something at least, because her eyes go a little soft, and she smiles secretly to herself.

They work away a little more, before Walter yelps and drops the card sleeve he was holding, stifles a swear as red blooms against the tip of his thumb. Happy snorts when he sucks the broken skin into his mouth and mocks him gently for being such a big baby. Paige shushes her as she grabs a bandaid from the first aid kit they’ve been keeping at hand (and Toby feels momentarily vindicated because he was right, this is _dangerous work_ , and he can’t wait to shove Walter’s papercut into Cabe’s face for saying that’s not a real excuse) and starts tending to Walter - who freezes like a rabbit caught in the headlights, and Toby wants very much to laugh and _laugh_ except Happy (and even Sly - _et tu, Brute?_ ) are sending him death glares. He rolls his eyes at them and at Paige, who laughs a little as she inspects Walter’s hand, oblivious to the way Walter has stilled under her ministrations.

“You know, I used to do the same thing for my friends in high school after cheerleading practise,” she says as she wraps a bandaid around his thumb. “We’d get all busted and bruised up and we’d have to fix each other up before we could leave. It kinda looked like we’d all been fighting or brawling.” Paige turns to Happy and tells her she’d probably fit right in with the cheerleading squad, and asks if she was ever involved in any club activities. Happy smirks, and asks if detention club counts, goes on to say that it reminds her of her sophomore year.

“Remember, Walter? That dickhead who used to make fun of Megan and you -”

“I remember Megan paying you $20 for breaking his nose, yeah,” Walter nods with a smile, missing the way Sly’s head swings up sharply from the shirts he has been signing and folding away. Happy throws the shirt she’s just signed in Walter’s face. “Well, I don’t remember you complaining either when you were busy _breaking me out of detention_ ,” she says, and she laughs when Walter gives a half-hearted shrug and tells her the Principal was _foolish_ for thinking he could tell them what to do, and suddenly they’re all cracking up, muffling their laughter into their hands, because _of course_ Walter can make a Principal punishing a student sound positively unjust.

They’re just beginning to calm down when Paige looks over at Sylvester, an encouraging, curious smile on her face. “What about you Sylvester, were you into any sports, or music clubs, or...?” Sly looks down again, smoothes out the t-shirt he has in his hands, and hunches in on himself. “Uh, my dad made me try out for football in freshman year,” he admits, “And I was in the school band during sophomore. I think I would have done that, if I hadn’t dropped out.” Paige is startled by this, Toby can tell, her mouth drops open a little and she blinks rapidly. “You did?” If anything, Sylvester seems to curl up on himself a little smaller in response, and Toby clears his throat.

“Well, not all of us can be accepted into _Harvard_ ,” he says, and he smirks as he rolls his hat up his arm and drops it onto his head with a flourish. Paige rolls her eyes a little, and Happy pulls a face at him, but soon the attention falls back to the work, and when no-one is looking Sly offers Toby a grateful look. Toby shrugs it off, and turns back to the next poster, because he thinks they’ve been friends long enough for Sly to know that Toby will _always_ have his back. Sly doesn’t need to thank him for the ways they’ve always been more like brothers than friends.

-x-

_“OMG U GUISE YOU HAVE TO READ THIS_ [ _http://bit.ly/1OV2Y1d_ ](http://i.imgur.com/QGIh2Ai.jpg) _IT’S GOT THE MOST PERF @tobymcurtis I’VE EVER READ IM CRYING”_

It only takes one search for Toby to come across this mention (retweeted and favourited to the nth degree), and two, three more searches before Toby discovers _bandom_ (and wow, okay so this explains the lawyer thing, why fans have been tagging his lyrics with #objectionyourhonor and #yespleasecouncillor). He spends the next full day and night surfing ao3 on his phone, signs himself up for a Tumblr account just so he can like gifs and manips that he plans on showing the others, and his brain just _boggles_ because like wow, some of this stuff gets pretty _rude_ , and he  is equal parts scandalized and absolutely delighted.

It takes him three days to read through it all, (or just skim some of the longer ones because _Jesus Christ, 70,000 words_ ), and when he’s finished, he bounds onto the bus, clears his throat and says _And when Toby looked up, his chocolate brown eyes glinting golden in the sun, Walter knew he was in love_. Toby bows after his dramatic reading, and wipes away an imaginary tear and everyone looks at him like he’s finally gone round the bend. He’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, but he takes a deep breath, and fights back the urge to laugh as he flops down into the nearest chair, and as casually as he can, tells them, “Oh, it’s from a fic,” and the mention of the source of his glee makes him smile again. “We’re in fics now. We’ve got a fandom. A _bandom_.” He looks up at them expectantly, and waits for them to get excited too, but they’re all giving him the same blank stare, except for Sly who looks vaguely uncomfortable. He frowns, and is about to ask him what’s wrong when - oh. _Oh!_

“ _You knew about bandom_ ,” he accuses Sylvester. “You knew about bandom and you didn’t tell us!” He doesn’t know whether to feel pleased or betrayed, opts for a bit of both. “Why didn’t you _say_ anything, this is the greatest thing _ever_!” Sly shifts a little and wrings his hands together, explains that _it was weird and creepy_ and _I try to pretend it never happened_ , which _dude_ , Toby retorts, feeling personally wounded. “We tell each other everything!”

Cabe, getting sick of the back and forth, snaps at Toby, tells him to either _explain it or drop it_ , and Toby is only too happy to oblige. He whips his phone out and starts scrolling through his bookmarks, takes a great delight in shoving it into Walter’s face and reading out loud the smutty stuff. _Toby gasps as Walter takes firm hold of his turgid member_ , he says, and he giggles when Walter tries to reprimand him because there’s so much stuff about him and Walter (and Sly. Oh, and Happy. And Paige and Happy and Sly. And _Cabe_ ).

He spends the rest of the day cornering each of them in turn and insists on showing them the photo manips. Happy doesn’t seem to find all of this as funny as he does, rolling her eyes and changing the topic, and when he refuses to let it go, she threatens to break his phone. Toby leaves her be after that, but he still thinks she’s a buzzkill.  

-x-

Later at night, hidden behind the curtain of his bunk and with everyone else asleep, he reads through his bookmarks again, caught up in the epic tale of the Toby-Paige romance and the ongoing series that recounts the illicit sexcapades of Cabe and Happy, and he wonders what it is the fans see when they look at their little ragtag family of misfits.

There are bonds between them, he knows, that others could not even begin to understand, and it’s a little strange to read about a Toby that cannot bear to look Happy in the eye, so filled with _vitriol_ for her for enchanting Walter away from him, and he is confused, wants to see what it is _they_ see when they look at them onstage and do not think _home_ in the same way Toby does.

He scrolls through their tags on tumblr and finds articles and confessions and endless gifs, and he watches them loop, over and over and over, as he tries to understand. He sees Walter’s hand at Paige’s waist, and a quiet conversation between her and Happy to one side of a video where Paige, smile bright and amused, points out into the crowd of fans whilst Happy _laughs_ , and he doesn’t see what the fans see.

He doesn’t know where to even begin looking for these complex ties and relationships where the band is the easiest thing in the world to him. So he reads the fics and he leaves comments on them, correcting them on grammar and offering ‘constructive criticism’. He attempts to enter in a debate in a thread about the group dynamics, about how Walter and Happy are the very best of friends, and that Sylvester, as anxious and shy as he may be, is so fiercely loyal and loving and brave, but in minutes, all of his points are shot down, and the snark comes quick and fast.

He is _wrong_ , his views _too simplistic_. He is _stupid_ , and _naïve_ , and _not a true fan_ , until he is battered into silence, and isn’t that weird, that what he sees as someone in the band can be interpreted so differently by the fans. It sort of makes the whole thing not so much fun.

-x-

They have an interview during one of the lulls in their tour, a filmed thing for Youtube with a trusted interviewer from a fairly well known blog, and Toby would have been excited, but he’s tired, feels run down by a lack of sleep and the constant movement, a little jittery from the joe he’s been hitting all morning and the nerves that seem to have taken root beneath his skin since the tour began. It also doesn’t help either, that instead of running through the stock answers Cabe has been forcing them to memorise - like kids learning their times tables - he is turning a conversation he had with Ralph earlier that morning over and over in his mind.

(“Are you and Happy boyfriend and girlfriend?” Toby had choked on his coffee and spilt more of it over the rim of his cup to splash across his skin. He’d cursed, had only remembered not to when Ralph had pressed on. “Well, are you?” Toby had swallowed thickly, stuttered out something like _you - uh, wha-_ before he’s managed to pull himself together.

“No buddy, we’re not. Who or what put that into your head?” He had blushed, he knows, because his skin had felt like _fire_.

“Cabe said that you and Happy fight like cats and dogs,” Ralph informs him, face serious and intent. “And then Sylvester said the laws of physics state that opposites will always attract one another. Popular culture accepts cats and dogs as opposites.” It’s the sort of sound kid-logic that hurts his brain, (and he tells himself he’s not disappointed that it’s not _Happy_ coming to talk to him about this). It takes a few minutes to convince Ralph that they’re definitely _not_ together, and it takes $5 to convince him to never mention it again.

Toby doesn’t know how to forget it though.)

The conversation repeats through his head all day which he will use to excuse the way he doesn’t see Happy as she wanders out of a room only to walk smack into his chest. She rears back at the impact and wobbles on her heels for a moment until he catches her elbow.

“Watch it, sasquatch,” she snaps as she rights herself. She’s keyed up too, he thinks, if the way her fingers twitch is anything to go by, and he can’t resist an opportunity to rid himself of some anxious energy, so he snarks straight back at her, says he’d probably be able to see her if she wasn’t so tiny. She scowls at him, warns him to watch his mouth, and it’s so very easy to grin down at her, lower his gaze a little, ask her, “Why? You watch it for me more than enough.”

She goes quiet at that as her gaze flicks back and forth across his face suspiciously, with something akin to a calculating danger, and he is instantly more alert than any caffeine-fueled high could make him. He feels stripped bare before her, and also like he’s toeing a very careful line, but it still settles something in him to lean a little further into her space and slow-step her backwards until she’s leaning against the wall. (She doesn’t stop him, doesn’t push him away, he notices.) And it leaves him emboldened, so much so that he whispers his retort to her, voice about half an octave lower, a little raspier as he tells her that if she watched his mouth, he’d be perfectly _happy to return the favour, sweetheart_.

She doesn’t respond and Toby, unable to resist teasing her, leans an arm up against the wall above her head, and cages her in with his body. It kicks her back into motion, and in an instant she is snapping insults at him (“Like the BFG,” she snarks, “only _uglier_.”), before she really hits her stride, and there’s a moment where she snorts and tosses her hair as she carries on verbally bullying him, only he’s not paying attention anymore.

He can smell the shampoo she uses, mingling with pure _Happy_ , sweat and steel and the polish-white spirit mix she sweeps across her drumkit, and he finds himself fascinated by the curve of her jaw this close up, and the way she bites her inner cheek which makes her lower lip jut out _just so_.

“Play nice, sweetheart,” he tells her, and he knows she recognises them for her own words, because she scoffs at him, but he’s too close, and he can see the way her pupils expand, dilate, _darken_ , and he thinks about how if he just leans down, closes that gap of mere inches he could breathe her in, suck a mark into the skin below her ear, and soothe away the sting with his tongue, and here’s the thing, _she’s not pushing him away_.

But then there is a noise, shoes on linoleum and Paige’s voice calling down the corridor for them to hurry up, the interviewer is waiting. They both startle, and when Toby turns to see Paige round the corner, Happy slips out from under his arm and bolts for the interview room. Toby has to take a few moments to blink away the image of Happy’s lashes, dark and heavy against her skin and to compose himself because… _what just happened?_

He eventually manages to drag himself out of his stupor and move, but he’s still thinking about it during the interview, can’t stop himself from watching the way she thumbs the scar on her jaw in agitation, or the way she rakes her own fingers through her hair (just like the way he wanted to), and there’s colour to her too, a red that sits low against her throat as she resolutely does not look in his direction.

There’s a click of the camera, and Toby looks up to realise the photographer is looking at him with something of a knowing look, and her smile is soft and amused. He tries from that point on to be a little more engaged.

-x-

It hadn’t worked, (because _of course_ it didn’t, the odds aren’t ever in his favour), and when the photos are released and the video uploaded, it becomes fodder for the trash tabloids and the music mags and fans alike, because even he can admit that whatever charges that atmosphere between them is _intense_ and comes across deliciously. He spends longer than he should just staring at the images, unable to look away (and the next time he ventures onto Tumblr and AO3, wow yeah, a pure _explosion_ of Toby/Happy fics that he can’t stop himself from perusing).

-x-

They travel on, across state lines and into Utah, into another city for another night doing what they love best, and Toby wants to _drown_ in it. Up on stage, his bass rattles through his brain and the music lights up his body like electricity and every nerve ending sings with it, and when he stumbles off stage, his world is cotton-candy flavoured and tastes like dreaming.  

-x-

**July 2016**

But the euphoria doesn’t last forever, and every morning he ends up hungover when he wakes up to reality, because as much as they love performing, God, the tour itself is getting _tiring_. Getting on the bus, setting up, taking down, always being on the move, the same stretches of road repeating against the inside of his eyelids, and _Jesus_ , seeing these same people 24/7 is getting really _fucking_ stale. Little things that shouldn’t be annoying _are_.

(Walter’s need to have the last word was sort of charmingly exasperating back home, but when they’re locked together on the bus it makes him want to punch himself, and he thinks he’s going to scream if he has to hear any more of Paige’s endless placations.)

Toby gets into a shouting match with Happy one evening after a performance, tucked away back stage and practically toe to toe, hurling insults back and forth over something he can’t even remember and that both will probably apologise for later (in their own way, which is to say that they will not apologise, but will buy each other a drink and have it in silence). It leaves Toby on edge, and later that night when he’s having a shower, he recalls the way her eyes sparked at him, the smell of her, the sweat that ran down her neck that he had wanted to chase away with his tongue, and humiliatingly, whilst the rage simmers away under his skin, a wisp or two of the latest Happy/Toby story echoes through his mind and curls low in his stomach.

It doesn’t take long to give into the pull of it, to wrap a soap-slicked hand around his stiffening cock and pretend it’s hers, and to picture the way she might look when she comes - the way she’d bite her lip as she fights the orgasm, and fall apart on it anyway.

He swallows as he considers how she’d feel when he slides home, into her (hot and tight and _wet_ ), wants to bury his face into her shoulder and his fingers in her hair, tangled and knotted as he presses her up against the shower wall, shifts her higher up to drive into her better, her hands sliding against the tiles as she struggles for purchase, and her voice, husky and wanton in his ear as she curses.

He comes, splattering against the very wall he’s picturing her against, slippery and well-sexed, and he works himself off against the last few juddering waves of it, presses his forehead against the cool tiles, and tries now, desperately, to think of nothing at all, even as his breath hitches and his legs shake.

When he comes out of the shower, he nearly bumps into her, and now _he’s_ the one avoiding her, hightailing it out of there until he’s back in his bunk, leaving her startled and curious in his wake.

-x-

They’re heading out to the bus after a performance, tired and hungry, and Toby wants nothing more than to eat a poptart, (maybe two), and to faceplant his bunk and also not move for a week, please. But as they leave from the backdoor of the theatre, there’s suddenly shrieking and crying, and they’re being accosted by a group of fans that start to beg for ten minutes of their time. “Please, oh _please_ , I’ve come all the way from Phoenix, and I’m so in love with you guys, please could I just get a selfie? Just one?” and “We’re like your _biggest fans_ , please I just want an autograph,” they say.

Toby dredges up a smile for them, tips his hat and says, “Well, we can’t say no to our biggest fans, can we?” There’s giggles and tears all round as they sign t-shirts and skin and take photos, and they’re lovely girls, patient and excited, and Cabe lets them all linger a little longer than usual to chat. Happy, Toby notices, keeps glancing at one girl out of the corner of her eye. She’s quiet and blushing and stares unmoving at Happy with big round eyes, until Happy speaks up, asks her if she wants a drink, because she looks kinda pale.

The girl is obviously overwhelmed, and stammers out a _no_ , but if she _could maybe just have one photo?_ And it’s like once she’s started she can’t stop, because she trembles as the words spill out, things about how _you don’t know how important this moment is to me right now, I’m your biggest fan ever_. Happy looks a little bemused, but thanks her and Toby watches on as the girl, looking so earnest and in awe, says _no, really,_ like she sees that Happy doesn’t understand. _Your music saved me, really, I read that Another Red Dented Fender was mostly your creation and it really spoke to me_.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to say thank you,” the girl eventually whispers, her gaze cast downward like she’s embarrassed and angry at herself. “You’ve changed my life for the better.” Toby is frozen as he watches on, sees the way Happy has gone from tired amusement to silent paralysing fear and she’s freaking out, Toby knows, when her panicked gaze cuts to him.

He reaches out for the girl’s phone and pulls her under one arm, Happy under the other and snaps a quick selfie, and then Cabe is clearing his throat, and ushering the last of the fans away and the band onto the bus. He tells the girls that it’s late now, makes sure they all have a safe way of getting home, and laughs, deep and rough when a few girls ask for _his_ autograph too. Toby leaves them to it, knows from the fics that those girls are _not_ as innocent in their love of Cabe as they pretend to be, and heads up the steps. Happy’s lurking, just out of way, and staring out the darkened windows at the girl who is watching the bus with reverence.

“Scary stuff, yeah?” he prods as he leans in next to her, watches Cabe give a few hugs as everyone else disperses back down the street and into the night.

“A little,” she agrees, voice quiet and soft. “It makes the rest of the bullshit worth it though, right?” He looks at her at that, but she’s still staring down at the girl, and they both look a little lost, Toby reckons. He nudges her with an elbow and smiles, says _yeah,_ and he doesn’t quite know what she means by _the bullshit_ , but the friendship? The music? The fans? It’s worth _everything_.

-x-

There’s a phone call at 3am, the kind that goes on and on and _on_ , and Toby buries his head in his pillow until it rings off. It goes off again not even thirty seconds later, and when Toby opens one eye and fumbles for his own phone, he wants to cry when he presses a button and the screen lights up, (way too fucking bright), and it’s so very, very early.

The ringing cuts off when Happy snaps into the dark, and she only says _what_ but she manages to inject an impressive amount of irritation into the word. There’s a pregnant pause and Toby relaxes back into it, his eyes falling closed again, but before he falls back asleep, there is the creaking of movement followed by a dull thud as Happy’s feet hit the floor and she is gone, her words a low hum from the front of the bus. He waits for what feels like a long time, but her voice dips and falls with the steady motion of the bus, and he is lost to the world again.

When he wakes up the next morning, it’s to too much noise and Cabe, yelling at them to _shake a leg_ and _band meeting in five_. It’s a ludicrously early time of day, and the bus is still for what feels like the first time ever, no potholes making the floor beneath them judder, and it sets Toby’s back teeth on edge when he peeks out the window and finds them pulled over in an empty car lot. He staggers from his bunk towards the front of the bus, and his stomach knots with dread when he sees Happy, face pinched and angry, as she sits in front of a laptop at the table Skyping a stern looking woman in a suit. Everyone else is crowded around Happy, save Cabe, who is watching her carefully from over a clipboard. He throws himself into the empty space between Walter and Sly and the woman on the screen glares at him through the pixels, tells him how _good_ it is for him to join them, _Mr Curtis,_ hopes they’re not _inconveniencing_ him.

It sets the tone for the entire conversation.

There’s been something of a scandal, _some photos_ Cabe clarifies, looking particularly grim, but there’s a lot of legal speak, _as detailed in your contracts_ and _speculation_ and _a coordinated response_ , but Toby tunes it all out and fiddles with his phone beneath the table and pulls up tumblr. He’s learning that when you want to know the news you go to the fans rather than the media sites, and there, in full glorious grainy technicolour, are about a dozen photos of Happy with Walter, his arm slung over her shoulders as he leans heavily on her, his hand trailing suggestively close to the daring neckline of her dress. There’s another where he is on the ground and she is helping him up, and a final that’s a little blurrier than the rest, that shows Walter’s face buried against the curve of her throat, her hand threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck.

They look so very incriminating, and the time stamps show that that they really are from a few days before Collins disappeared. Toby scrolls down to the comments from the fans, and his stomach turns. They’re all startling, ugly in their triumph and hate, but some are particularly vulgar. _What a slut_ , one says. _Mark was right, she really did get the job on her back_ , says another. _So she’s just going to sleep her way through the band?_ and _God, I actually feel sorry for Walter, my poor bby,_ and he wants to delete them, somehow reach through his phone and erase them from existence.

The conference call is a fucking _mess_ , the PR team adamant that Happy offer some answers at their next interview, a fabricated story about a relationship that never happened, that dwindled during the early days of her joining the band and that they’re still great friends, that both Happy and Walter are committed foremost to the music.

She refuses, over and over again as the suit gets more and more agitated, and it all gets rather ugly when their team start demanding actual answers then, pushing her to say why the photos exist, what really happened, _if you weren’t screwing him,_ one snaps and they all seize up in their seats, eyes wide and mouths slack, and it’s Cabe that jumps into action, stomps forward and snatches the laptop away from them, warns the PR team tha _t if they dare say anything about his band again, they’ll be out on their asses before they can blink_ and slams the laptop shut before they have a chance to reply.

Happy takes off not long after, laces up her boots and disappears across the road and into the Tuesday morning crowd. Walter follows her, and Cabe leaves them to it, doesn’t complain when they stagger onto the bus later that evening, clearly trashed on cheap beer, even though it means he’ll have to drive them through the night to get them to Denver on time.

-x-

There’s a statement released on her behalf on their website the next morning, something cheerfully _apologetic_ about how she’s sorry she didn’t tell the fans but she thought it’d be best for the band to put the relationship behind them and focus on the music. She’s understandably _pissed_ when she sees it and she alternates between breaking everything within reach and scowling at her laptop. Sly tries to pull her into a hug but she slaps his hands away and retreats further into herself, and the only thing she has to say on the matter, sounding frustrated and dejected, is that _it’s fucking bullshit!_

Nobody disagrees.

-x-

The Walter/Happy rumours continue and Toby’s newsfeed is flooded with speculation and questions and the frenzy doesn’t die down. The comments he sees are vindictive and jubilant, endless people saying ‘ _I knew it, I knew they were a thing’_ and ‘ _Ew, wow, she really is trash_ ’ and the videos of all their past performances and interviews are being dissected for evidence of Happy and Water’s fling, and it’s nearly all in Walter’s favour.

‘ _Look how uncomfortable Walter looks at 13.56 tho?_ ’ one says, and in an hour there is a chain of support and laughter, and Happy manages to withdraw completely in just the space of a few hours, choosing to hide on the bus when they stop for food and skipping soundcheck altogether. She eventually moves when the venue opens to the fans, but even then she stills at the top of the steps, looking for all the world like she’s about to cry, and she clings to Walter, tangles their fingers together and _begs_ him to let her stay on the bus, voice quick and urgent as she tells him she doesn’t feel very well, and _Walt, please, something’s going to happen, please, I know it_. Toby’s never seen her looked so panicked, but Walter just squeezes her fingers, and promises that _everything will be fine_.

But it turns out she’s right, because in Denver, when the lights go up and they walk out on stage, there is little of that wild applause and cheering they have become accustomed to, that adoration and exaltation, and there are patches, here and there, of hissing and booing, and the jeers, the banners, the slow steady chant of ‘ _slut, slut, slut_ ’, over and over again, is the drum roll of an execution.

There is the scuffle of security fighting their way through the crowd and Toby can only watch on, horrified, as Happy takes her place on stage and refuses to meet anybody’s eye. She sits, back straight and shoulders up around her ears, and plays their song mechanically, always a half-beat behind and Toby can’t look away from her. He feels sick, and Happy just keeps going whiter and whiter until she looks ready to pass out, the rhythm of her drumming growing more and more unsteady as the concert wears on, and she misses cues, and messes up the bridge of _Luck Doesn’t Exist (But Science and Math Do)_ , until she can’t go on any longer.

She stops playing, just _stops_ , and they rattle on for a few seconds longer without her until they all fall silent too, and the fans go still in their seats. They all watch on as she stands up and walks off stage to the sound of her drumsticks dropping to the floor and rolling away.

They eventually scramble together enough to pull their backup on, and they limp through the rest of their songs, and it’s a quick, solemn affair. And when they hurry off stage, practically _throwing_ their in-ears at terrified-looking techs, they follow the trail of destruction and noise back to the green room, where Happy is _screaming_ at Cabe, swearing incoherently at him, and when she spins on her heel and sees them all crowding around by the door, she picks up a glass and launches it at Walter’s head. It misses, but they all flinch away when it shatters against the wall and shards of glass fly in all directions. The sound seems to shock her a bit, and she watches water trickle down the wall as she struggles to catch her breath.

“Happy?” Sylvester squeaks, sounding scared and concerned, and she turns to them all and her expression is absolutely _devastated_.

“They all fucking _hate_ me,” she says, and Toby feels like he’s caught in a vice, and someone is slowly squeezing all the air out of his lungs.

“Happy, no! No, they don’t hate you, Happy-” but it’s the wrong thing to say, and she rounds on Paige.

“Oh, like happyquinnisacunt dot com is ambigous, right?!,” she shouts, her skin blotchy with rage as she swings around to face Cabe, who takes an aborted step in her direction before he thinks better of it. “Quinnisawhore dot Tumblr dot com?! Hashtag justiceformarkcollins?! You’re right, there’s so much fucking scope there for _interpretation!_ ”

There’s a beat where Cabe’s eye narrow and he catches Walter’s gaze, and then Cabe is storming off and looking absolutely livid, and Walt isn’t far behind him, his warning to _stay here_ falling on deaf ears as they all wait a second before scrambling after them. By the time they catch up, Cabe and Walter are already on the bus, and Toby’s more than a little shocked to see Walter rifling through Happy’s bags and Cabe tearing apart her bunk. They all watch on as Walter passes her laptop to Cabe, and Happy pushes Toby out of the way so she can reach to snatch it back, looking panicked and confused as she snaps at him to _give that back!_ Cabe ignores her in favour of unearthing a tablet hidden inside her pillow case, and it’s Walt that intercedes when she looks ready to punch someone, steps into her space and sizes her up.

“Your phone,” he demands, and holds his hand out in front of her. She pales and takes a step back, but Walter follows her until she’s pressed up tight against the wall, expression not wavering as she pleads with him. Behind Toby, Sly makes a move to defend her, but Toby wraps a hand around his wrist to stop him, and remains firm when Sly shoots him an appalled look, because he doesn’t know how else to help Happy right now, so he follows Walter’s lead, lets him force her to give up her phone and then turn back to her things, even as she looks small and sad and betrayed, tells them quietly that, “You can’t do that. They’re _mine_.”

They can and they do, and Sylvester cries when, on Cabe’s order, Walter hacks his way past her passwords, looks through her likes on Tumblr and the things she’s favourited on twitter (and _God_ , some of it dates back to her joining the band), and her bookmarks on chrome, and it’s all the same - ‘ihatehappyquinn.com’, and ‘happyquinnisabitchfyeah.tumblr.com’ and ‘twitter.com/quinnhatersclub’.

“How c-could anyone even _say_ that about Happy?” Sly sniffles, looking woebegone and pulling in agitation at his ring finger, but nobody has an answer for him, and there’s a murderous glint in Cabe’s eyes like he actually wants to kill someone and Walter, looking flummoxed and angry, wants to know why Happy would pay attention to any of it at all, but she doesn’t say a word, she just watches them pull her search history apart with dark eyes and wet lashes, looking clammy and pale.

She doesn’t say a word as she turns her back on them all and crawls into her bunk and Toby just watches as Ralph, confused and scared, ducks out of his mother’s arms and crawls into her bunk behind her. She’s crying, Toby knows, silently and with her face buried in her pillow so no can see, but she can’t suppress the shudders, and Toby thinks that if it had been anyone else but Ralph, she would have flinched away, and lashed out at them, but she lets Ralph’s presence soothe her, and he just curls up into her and puts his arms around her.

Toby hears Paige’s stifled sobs, and he knows that she throws herself into his chest, and he instinctively brings a hand up to pull her closer, to brush his fingers through her hair, but he doesn’t really feel much of anything at all, and he can only stare at Happy’s back and Ralph’s tiny paw against the skin of her arm as she threatens to shake apart.

-x-

Happy sleeps for a long time, through the night and well into the next afternoon, curled up tight around herself and with her breath still stuttering on every third inhale. They take it in turns to watch over her, and they’re all exhausted by the time the sun starts to warm the asphalt, Denver miles behind them, and they don’t sleep, skittering back to consciousness every time Happy twitches and anxiously praying for the furrow of her brow to ease. Cabe collars Walter, in the early hours of the morning, and makes him drive, whilst he starts making calls. It is decided (to the displeasure of their team), that the next few concerts are cancelled until further notice, and Cabe drives on through the night until Colorado disappears in their mirrors and they’re crossing Arizona state lines.

Cabe eventually puts the bus in park, and when they all stagger onto solid land, knees weak from sitting, and Happy’s awake (groggy and shivering, but determined to forget the entire debacle), they’re staring down at the Grand Canyon and very bewildered. Cabe scoffs at them, his familiar exasperation smoothing across the bruises, and asks them what they’re waiting for. It’s an invitation, and although it takes a few hours, and shitty marshmallows roasted over the most pathetic campfire ever, they all carefully sink back into one another.

They pretend it’s a holiday, and that they have no responsibilities, and they spend longer than they should messing around on the edge of the cliff and just being ... er, _however old they are_ , until the smiles Happy fake for Ralph start to relax a little, seem a little less strained. Toby pulls Happy closer to the edge, and laughs at her wide eyes but then she’s turning on him pulling him even further out until he’s the one shrieking in terror. Paige and Ralph take photos, pulling Walter into the frame and squeezing together under the setting sun.

The day draws to a close though, and they pile back onto the bus for the night, and that ease fractures a little under the weight of Walter’s guilt. Toby is inside and watching them through the darkened glass when he overhears Walter trying to apologise to her outside the bus as they stare out at the endless expanse of starry sky across the canyon. Happy tells him it’s not his fault, that he isn’t the one to blame. Toby wants to gather her up and hold her close, but Sly is already there, bundling her up in his arms, and she lets him, presses closer like she can fade away completely if she just tries hard enough, and goes limp against him, and they stay like that for a long time.

-x-

When they’re all back on the bus, Walter sits them all down and explains in fits and starts, with his cheeks colouring and gaze averted, how he and Happy have been friends for _years_ , were friends before Mark was even a blip on Walt’s radar, and how he tried to recruit her for a band he wanted to form. But she’d been surviving, a cousin in Phoenix with a garage, space for her, and an endless queue of broken machines, and she’d been hesitant to drop it all and rely on friends, on _Collins_ ; who Walt had just recruited, who Happy had warned him about. She’d called him _toxic, a manipulator_ , and a charmer _through and through_ , and she had told Walt to get out whilst he still could, told him she could see how terribly it could go.

Walter clears his throat awkwardly, and Happy has gone still again, her fingers splayed out across the table and she stares at them as the story unfolds, and as everyone listens, rapt, studying her and Walt in turn.

He grits out, slowly, that there had been no dissuading him, that he’d been halfway to being in love with Mark long before Happy had met the guy, and that Happy had implored him to leave, to run away from him and never look back. There had been a row, Walt admits, lines drawn in the sand and an ultimatum. _I chose Mark_ , he says, _and I didn’t care who I hurt in the process. And Happy left_.

Toby knows where it goes from there, because he remembers how he and Sly joined not long afterwards, (the lost boys Walter adopted in a music store on a rainy Tuesday, conmen by necessity, in trouble by nature), and the band had released some songs, played a few bars and got a reputation for being halfway decent. And then they’d released a song that peaked at thirty-eight, had made themselves enough of Z-listers for Collins to convince Walter to try drugs, and they had both spiralled into week long benders and the music had gone to shit (which Toby remembers, the shit music, and the Collins-O’Brien messy romance, and every single high, but he had been so wrapped up in his own problems - two broken parents and the family that had fractured under the weight of a love that was never meant to be. He remembers not paying enough attention to Walter and he feels his own guilt now too).

Walter carries on, talks about how Happy caught up with them before the fame did, and how she dragged Walter, kicking and screaming, out of the mess Collins made, got him clean, helped him through withdrawal, fucking _saved his life_ , and how he had, once he had been away from Collins, finally seen Mark for the messed up fuck that he had been all along.

-x-

They drive aimlessly for a week, finding what feels like every single tourist trap in North America and collecting souvenirs and family photos like someone’s _dying_ , and it’s lovely and grounding, but it’s not all magically okay.

By the afternoon of the second day, Happy is snappish and restless, and it seems like the tighter she coils the more hostile she becomes, and with every successive insult, Walter pushes their self-imposed exile all the more harder. He’s ordered Cabe to cancel more gigs and the days stretch out before them, pointless and sunny. They’re all living on edge and eager to get back to work, and it’s clear to see that Happy is going quietly fucking _mental_ the longer their impromptu holiday lasts.

She starts dropping hints on the third day, about knowing that it’s stupid to always read the comments and that the comments themselves are irrelevant, but nobody is actually falling for it, so when she starts wheedling at Sly and Paige for their laptops and phones, they refuse and even Sly, who is clearly torn between making Happy happy and not letting Walter down, gets dragged into a row with her. He explains, with tears in his eyes, that he’s just trying to _protect_ her, but it’s the wrong thing to say, and she blows up at him.

“Hiding me from the world is not _protecting_ me,” she shouts, and nobody has much of an answer to that. She sulks for two days, hides in her bunk with the curtain drawn and only speaks to Sly, quiet apologies that accumulate as she picks listlessly at her food and catches up on six months worth of sleep in a few hours.

When she emerges, she’s determined, and using all of her powers of persuasion to get something, _anything at all_ from them. (She’ll never admit it, Toby knows, but she isn’t above carefully writing urls down on a napkin for Ralph and asking him to find out what’s being said, but she’s lucky that it was Toby that caught Ralph carefully copying words too big and cruel onto his hand, because he doubts Paige, or even Walter, would be so forgiving.)

The lies and the schemes spiral out of control until Cabe steps in and puts his foot down. There’s another screaming match at the front of the bus, but this time it’s Cabe that has the last word. (“And what the hell do you think you can do, knowing what some of the nutcases are saying about you?” He had demanded, but her silence had been mutinous and persists, days later.)

It takes a while, but she does eventually stop asking for information, and they think that’s that. She starts popping out with them at rest stops, starts eating a little bit more again, buys snacks and snarks at Toby, (who snarks back, delighted that she’s acting a little more like normal), and they think maybe she’s putting it all behind her… until they realise that she has just been buying the trash mags and tabloids instead, they find them piling up under her seat and in her bags.

“I just need to know,” she confesses quietly to Walter one evening, looking ashamed and desperate. “I need to be prepared for whatever’s going to happen next.”

Toby doesn’t know if it’s a relic of a conversation from a past life, or if it’s Walter’s guilt over Denver still fresh in his mind, but he spends hours whispering back and forth with Cabe as the road stretches on, and the next morning, her laptop and phone are sat at the end of the bed before she wakes up. She pulls the curtain of her bunk across when she notices, hiding herself from the world, and when she stumbles out hours later looking wounded, there’s something settled about her too.

-x-

**September 2016**

**Homeland Security: Tour Hiatus Update  
** _Homeland Security would like to apologise to their fans following the recent, unscheduled hiatus, which has led to further delays across their ongoing North American tour. It is with deep regret that we must inform you that, due to time constraints, the missed shows can not be rescheduled. As such, all fans that purchased tickets to the affected shows, (as listed below), will be refunded in full commencing September 12th 2016 at 00:00 PDT._

_Fans in St Louis, Missouri, will be pleased to hear that Homeland Security will be making their full return there on September 9th, and that the band are very excited to attend all future performances as stated on their official website._

_The band are encouraging fans to come and meet them in Missouri, as the concert promises to be the performance of a lifetime (sentence)._

Toby closes the tab on his phone with a snort (because Ralph could have done a better job in making it sound more like something they’d say for fucks sake).

-x-

The week before they return to the surreal realities of performing and rehearsals drags on before them and they spend a lot of time twiddling their thumbs and doing not much else.

Somewhere along the way, they start taking it in turns to excitedly call out exactly how long, to each _second_ , it is until they’re back up on stage, and with every passing hour, a raucous cheer goes up. Paige takes to hiding the clocks, fed up of the 3am wake up calls to the stamping of feet and excited play-fighting, but Toby turns it into a bit of a game. He encourages Sly to keep track of the minutes on the road and wasted away loitering in car lots, and then has everyone gambling over his accuracy when they pull over for rest stops and he tells them what the clock should read. He’s kind of terrifyingly good at it, and Toby is happily cleaning everyone out. Cabe owes him $41, (though Toby is kind of hesitant about trying to collect).

He seems to get bored of their constant whining though, and even Ralph, who has been an absolute _darling_ about life on the road and sitting still for inhumane amounts of time, is beginning to tire, so as they’re passing through the next nameless town, (although ‘town’ might be a bit of a stretch; it’s just a main road and a school and a church), Cabe pulls in at a cheap little hotel and they all breathe a sigh of relief.

“Stay out of trouble,” he tells them before he hands out room keys and disappears into the evening, looking rather like he needs a stiff drink and also to never hear their voices again. Toby spends a few minutes collapsed face down on the asphalt and dramatically professing his love for all things that stay still but, predictably, just a few moments later they all scatter like leaves in the wind because they have _never_ listened to Cabe, and that’s not about to change.

Walter stalks off without a backwards glance, a few sweet treats tucked under one arm as he mutters about a _fascinating experiment_ and _cognitive behavioural recalibration in rodents_ , but nobody’s paying much attention to him. Sly looks particularly shifty as he gathers up his electronics and chargers and shuts himself in his room, but Happy is already rooting around under the hood of the bus, and Toby is more than a little distracted by the view.

He half hears Paige and Ralph discussing a trip to the library and the park as they wander off, but he doesn’t really pay much attention to anything at all until Happy tucks herself up under the bus, nestled between the rear tyres with a screwdriver in her hand and a wrench held in her mouth. He looks around, up at the sun that beats down upon his hat and and along the dusty high street, and he feels _lonely_ in the silence. He’s used to the hustle and bustle of sharing every inch of his space with five other people, and a team of tech support, and the sound engineers that come and go with every venue.

Alone, with so much free time, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He collects enough of his belongings from the suitcase that seems to have exploded across his bunk since the tour started and trudges quietly to his room. It’s kind of wonderful, he thinks, to have a _double bed_ and a shower all to himself, and he spends a long time scrubbing his skin clean and settling into the emptiness of his room, and when he’s done, he falls into bed and starfishes himself out across the comforter, stretching every inch of his body until his joints crack and he relaxes and passes out.

-x-

It’s maybe a Wednesday, or a Sunday or Mother’s Day when Toby finally, (painfully), tears himself away from his bed and a _Simpsons_ marathon for longer than twenty minutes. Once the initial wave of exhaustion had been dealt with, he’d come to realise that his double mattress? It’s actually pretty fucking shitty and not at all conducive to a good night’s sleep, and after an hour of tossing and turning and fruitlessly fluffing his (equally shitty) pillows, he’s in need of a drink from the bar downstairs and also maybe a private jam session on the tour bus where he won’t wake anyone else up (because lesson fucking _learnt_ ).

He doesn’t know why he looks, as intent on alcohol and music as he is, but when he glances over, he catches Happy hidden in the corner of the lobby, toes curling against the edge of the table that she’s propped her feet against as she balances her laptop on her legs. She doesn’t notice him when he passes her on the way to the bar, as engrossed in her reading as she is, and she doesn’t notice when Toby steps up behind her a minute later, two beers in hand.

He stares at the screen and the myriad of tabs she has open, and from what he can tell, it’s all blogs that she’s reading, and he catches a few choice words in the fucking _essay_ that she’s reading and it makes him _cringe_. It’s all nasty, horrible, abusive stuff and when he reads the title, (‘ _Ten Reasons Why Happy Quinn Should Kill Herself (and do everyone else a favour)_ ’), his heart lurches in his chest and he knows he can’t let her carry on doing this anymore. He clear his sleep-rough, scratchy voice and says, “Hello, sweetheart.”

She jumps, because she always does, but there’s no angry little scowl that she shoots his way, just something bleak and a little lost in her eyes. It lasts maybe a second before that mask comes falling back into place, and she slams the laptop shut like she’s been caught doing something shameful. He feels, suddenly, very sick, because he knows that the fans can be obnoxious and cruel, and he is struck by the knowledge that he doesn’t really know what sort of irreparable damage this is doing to her, and a world without Happy sounds terrifyingly... possible.

He stares at her as the blood rushes in his ears, takes in dark bruises beneath her eyes as she juts her jaw angrily and snaps at him, says, “What do you want, Curtis?” like it’s a challenge. He doesn’t say anything at that, thinks _please be okay_ and _talk to me_ and _you’re one of my best friends_ all at once, but forgets how to use his mouth, and so he moves around the couch, and slides in next to her (and the lobby is chilly, and she has shorts on and he can feel how icy to the touch her skin is, how it leeches the heat from his own legs).

She watches him carefully, eyes guarded and suspicious, and he lets her do it, holds steady as he reaches into her space and pulls the laptop away from her and into his own lap, and she remains silent, even as he types in her password and the screen flickers back to life in technicolour. _What are you looking for_ , she eventually asks when he opens a new tab, and taps a few choice words into her search engine. The results are in the high millions, and he huffs a laugh and opens the first link.

It’s a Tumblr blog of all things, with bright colours and a crudely made edit of the band crying, and with his mouth still thick and slow with exhaustion and disuse, he starts to read out the posts. They’re ridiculously petty, lots of gifs of Walter gurning and the ‘childish’ way Toby fiddles with his hat, but the girls that run the blog are genuinely funny, and yeah, they fucking _hate_ Homeland Security, but it’s easy to laugh when they’re mocking the way Sly makes a ‘fucking ceremony’ over every question he’s asked. And it takes a while, but she eventually leans a little closer to peer over his shoulder, and her breath fans out across his skin when he comes across a bullet-pointed list detailing the many ways in which he is a ‘Complete Asshole TM’ ( _they’re not wrong_ , she teases as she curls up into his space, and she is soft and warm and pliant against him).

The blog goes on for ages, pages and pages of accusations and insinuations flying back and forth between the mods and visitors alike, and there are posts about how Paige can’t sing and how Walter is secretly Voldemort and Sylvester infiltrated the band so he could take over and leave Toby in the gutter. It’s all mean-spirited, but an hour later she’s giggling into her elbow at the flame wars, and when he looks down at her, she’s breathless and flushed with exertion, and when she looks up at him and her dark eyes are crinkling with the force of her grin, she’s beautiful and he can’t tear himself away.

He watches her for a long while as her laughter subsides and she relaxes against him, hugs her legs to her chest and rests her head atop her knees, and he wants for all the world to wrap her sleepy smile and this moment up in bubble wrap and give them to her to keep.

He sighs a little, and feels so very old when he flicks the tab back to the hateful blog and it’s all vitriol, and he can feel the way she seizes up against him, brittle like glass, but he reads the post slowly and carefully, his gaze lingering on every word, and when Toby reaches the end of it, he clicks the little ‘comment’ button and begins to type. He means to point out the flaws in their arguments, throw every spelling and grammatical error under a microscope and rip the author to shreds with nothing but their own hypocrisy, but what comes out is something too long and too honest, something about her strength and her loyalty, about how passionate she is and how she’s the most talented drummer he’s ever met. It’s about her endless patience and how graceful she is and her conviction, and how lucky he is to know her, and the way she takes her coffee, and how ethereal she looks just before she falls asleep.

His heart thunders in his chest and his eyelashes feel sticky with every memory he has of her that dances through his mind and splashes across the page with each key he touches, and when he presses ‘post’ Happy buries her face in his arm and Toby tries to remember how to breathe. When the page refreshes and he is taken to her home screen, he doesn’t mention the fact that he can tell she’s had this account for some time, has amassed hundreds of posts in her like list that she has clearly saved to read over and over again, but he notices, and he wants to stand against the world for her, reverse the gravitational spin of the fucking planet if she asked him to do it. Because Happy deserves that, more than anything in the world.

_Happy..._ and he just doesn’t know how to complete that thought, because Happy is relaxing against him again as she starts to nod off. He spends the rest of the night mapping to memory the way her eyelashes flutter against her skin, how each breath she takes causes her to make the tiniest little wheezing noise.

(Because it’s _Happy_ , he ends up thinking. Just because.)

-x-

Eventually though, there are no excuses left to be made, and their mid-tour hiatus comes to an end. They’re all quiet as the bus starts rumbling away along the road once more, and there’s nothing left but the uncomfortable truths between them, sun-kissed memories of the Grand Canyon and a list of cities and venues and dates.

They fall back into it easily enough, the music wrests itself from their bodies and the theatres vibrate with the screaming of the fans, but it’s a little different now. Their performances are fraught with tension, and they still love the thrill of performing, but when they climb off stage, it’s not with the exuberance they had, but with a weariness that has nothing to do with how tired their bodies are and everything to do with the empty seats that litter their concerts here and there, and the fans that still refuse to cheer for Happy. Their songs are angrier than ever before, and when the last last chord lingers and snarls in the air, Happy no longer idles away the hours in the green room with them, and instead slips off to the bus alone, distracted and fatigued.

Walter and Cabe take to having hushed but heated discussions before and after each performance, and neither have said anything, but there’s whispers of further cancellations that begin to echo through the fanbase, and all the backlash and accusations that follow, and in days she is gone, lost in her own world, and shouldering the weight of her quiet grief alone. Cabe schedules an interview, a _sympathetic ear_ , he calls it, and Happy resists it for as long as she can against the combined weight of the rest of the band, tells them over and over that there’s no need to talk about anything at all, but she is out-manned and out-reasoned, and the interview goes ahead.

-x-

The interview takes place in an expensive hotel suite, much to Happy’s chagrin, and their presence and cooperation is _mandatory_ , Cabe orders. Happy ignores him, is determined to make the entire affair as difficult as she possibly can, and Toby doesn’t blame her for it. His stomach twists and knots itself as the appointment draws closer, and his palms start to sweat.

He remembers the interview they’d had with Jacob from Rolling Stone all too clearly, and he can’t help inserting himself into Happy’s space and pressing a little closer than usual, like he can physically shield her from the poisonous remarks the universe continues to throw her way. When they arrive, Cabe leads them into the room like ducklings, but Happy hangs back and Toby waits with her, leans against a wall and watches her pace back and forth, a steady _one, two, three, spin_ before he catches her fingers and holds her still. Her hand is cold and he is reminded, unfairly, of how small she is, how delicate.

“Are you ready?” he asks her. She takes a deep breath and nods. She doesn’t look ready at all. Her eyes are too wide and her bottom lip is bitten raw and bleeding. She lets him lead her into the room anyway.

The journalist seems nice, if a bit direct, introduces herself as Cassandra Davis and smiles warmly as she thanks the band for taking the time out of their schedule to talk to her. She says it to the room, but she clearly has eyes only for Happy, who is sitting with feigned insolence, but her face is screwed up in a tight frown and she looks ready to bolt.

“Believe me,” she grits out. “If it were up to me I wouldn’t be doing this interview at all.” Toby hiccups on a laugh, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cabe roll his eyes, and rub a hand over his face. The interviewer though, seems unfazed.

“Well, with what’s being said about you at the moment, I’m not surprised that you feel that way, so I won’t take it personally.“ There’s a shocked sort of silence at her blunt words, and Happy tenses up in her seat like she’s squaring off for a fight. Toby is half expecting Happy to pounce, but the interviewer backs off and moves on, runs through a few basic questions about their tour, how they’re finding things, their future plans as a band, and they’re quiet and polite as they answer her questions and anxiously wait for things to blow up in their faces.

It happens when they’ve all just settled into the rhythm of things. Cassandra slides a sheet across the desk towards Happy and steeples her fingers together as she watches for a reaction, and Toby feels them all seize up in their seats, thinks to himself _here we go_ because this is the reason for it all, isn’t it?

“Now, Miss Quinn, I take it you’ve read some of the comments that have been doing the rounds? Twitter user @homelandstan tweeted that you were ‘going to ruin the lives of the other band members’ an-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Happy cuts her off, sounding short and tight and panicked.

The interviewer raises an eyebrow and looks back down at her notes. “Tumblr user letthissingingmanholdyourhand made a remark three weeks ago, about how they’d ‘known all along that you and Walter were involved’. Is there anything you’d like to say to them?” Happy _glares_ at her and shakes her head, but Sly is piping up, his words coming quick and quiet as he tells the journalist that _what letthissingingmanholdyourhand says isn’t true_ , and that _Happy didn’t even sanction that statement_ , and that _she shouldn’t have to explain herself anyway!_

Cassandra doesn’t look very impressed, but she nods and makes a note of her own anyway. Toby doesn’t know what that means, but there’s no time to worry about it because she is checking the question off her list and moving on again.“And what would you like to say then, to the comparisons that are being drawn between yourself and Paige?” Happy doesn’t move and Toby blinks once, twice, suddenly lost, and Walter asks what she is talking about. “Between Miss Quinn and Miss Dineen,” she clarifies.

“Wait, hold on,” Paige says, a hand held up to interrupt her. “Comparisons? What comparisons?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as the journalist eyes them all, but Toby is watching Happy, who is sinking further into her chair, her arms coming up to cross in front of her chest, and Toby knows without asking that she knows what Cassandra is talking about, and that it’s not going to be pretty. Cassandra sighs and slips her glasses from her face and gives them all a frank look.

“Happy and Paige are both new to the band,” she says, like they should know where she’s going with the statement. (They really don’t) and she frowns at them before she continues. “The fans perceive Paige to be a ‘valid’ addition to the band, serving as ‘the glue’ to balance you all out and also as an improvement upon Walter’s vocals. The arguments online are because some of the fans think that Happy isn’t this. She may be a good drummer, but so was _Mark_. These articles...” she trails off to flip through the papers in front of her, _Paige Stan: unHappy Fan_ and _Why Paige Is Worth Ten Of Happy_. “They serve as a competition between Paige and Happy, one judged entirely by the fans. And I’m afraid to say that it’s a game that Miss Quinn has been losing ever since she joined the band.”

Paige is frozen, and looking increasingly horrified as Cassandra explains that the fans are _hurt_ and _lashing out_ , but Happy is like stone next to him and she’s staring at the desk and blinking too quickly. “Mr Curtis?” Toby jumps and turns back to Cassandra. “You _do_ realize that most fans believe Miss Quinn to be ‘playing’ both you and Mr O’Brien?”

Toby swallows, realizes when his face go slack that he’d been gritting his teeth as she’d explained the articles and his jaw aches with the tension. _Why do they think that,_ he asks as he desperately tries to not to dwell on the fact that this unspoken _thing_ he has with Happy is being acknowledged by someone that is not thirteen. He feels a little sick and his heart flutters in his chest as Walter protests loudly and furiously as the insinuation. Between one moment and the next, he becomes very aware of Happy’s presence, a line of heat beside him, even as she seems to fold in on herself, her shoulders hunching up as she refuses to look anywhere but the spot on the desk in front of her, and Toby’s throat clicks as he swallows again, his eyes burning with the effort it takes not to watch her.

He is vaguely aware of Paige and Sly and Walt shouting over each other in defence of Happy, but it’s Cabe that brings the interview to an end, stepping up behind Happy, hand on her shoulder, and cutting through the noise to tell Cassandra, in no uncertain terms, that _Happy is a very talented musician, and she has the full support of everyone at Agent Records,_ and that _it’s both a pleasure, and an honour, to have been afforded the chance to work with her._

Happy doesn’t say a god damn word, but the look she shoots Cabe is surprised and fragile, and rather like he hung the moon in the sky when he ushers her up from her seat and from the room with his hand at her waist and barely an ‘excuse me’.

-x-

Later that night, when the clock ticks over into the early hours and the sky is just starting to wash the clouds in pink, they gravitate towards one another. The air is still warm from the midday sun, and Toby and Happy are both lounging on his balcony, cookies and cheap beer shared between them and she’s smiling, looks more relaxed than he’s seen her in months. They’re both loath to go to sleep (and he’s been teasing her about how she’s gonna fall if she’s not careful, balanced as she is on his balcony railing, legs swinging like she’s ten again), to leave each other’s company when the space between them feels alight.

“I miss chocolate cake,” he tells her and she laughs at him, tells him he’s ridiculous because chocolate cake is not limited to California. “Come on then,” he says. “What do you miss the most?” She hums for a moment, and the _not-travelling_ answer goes unmentioned because it’s obvious, and it sticks in their throats like dry-swallowing bitter pills.

“Feeling clean,” she says. “Having one coffee brand. Free food.” Toby chokes on his beer and when he looks at her, she’s wearing a shit-eating grin and he feels the familiar swell of injustice at her ‘super power’.

“It’s still not fair,” he mutters and she laughs too-loud into the night. The conversation between them trails off into a companionable silence and Toby swallows the dregs of his drink as Happy dusts cookie crumbs off her hands and into the air. Toby watches her, the way the wind tugs at her hair, and his breath stutters when she catches him looking at her. A second passes, and another, and she doesn’t look away, returning his gaze in slow steady heartbeats. He thinks they could stay that way forever, frozen like that in time but then she teeters a little on her perch, startled by a bird flying by too close, and Toby whips forward and reaches out thought-fast to wrap his hand around her thigh to keep her steady.

“Woah, careful sweetheart,” he murmurs, a low thing not meant for anyone, but when she whispers _okay_ into the air, he is caught off guard by the way the space between them has closed and the air is charged and there is just _Happy_ startlingly, overwhelmingly close.

He sways into her space and thinks, distractedly, how easy it would be to slant their mouths together, and as he presses closer to her, his eyes flutter half-shut in anticipation, until he can feel her breath against her mouth and the air he inhales is hot and damp and sweet with cookies. He wets his lips, at which point she breaks, pulling back as her gaze skitters away to the horizon. Toby huffs a laugh and smiles down at her, even as disappointment tugs at his chest.

There’s nothing but silence between them then, and Toby watches a car pass down the street below with little interest, the headlights lighting the world up in shadow before it disappears around the corner. Happy squirms against him and clears her throat, and when he turns back to her, she is looking at him with her brow furrowed in confusion. “Yes?” he sing-songs, because he likes the way she bristles against him before she gets to her point.

“Why did you freeze this morning? When Cassandra asked about this whole... _thing_?” she asks, (gesticulates vaguely to the air between them to encompass all the implications and the history between them), and Toby is so very fond of the way her face screws up at not being able to find the right words. “You could have like, laughed her off? I thought you hated me anyway. I wouldn’t have cared.”

Toby stares at her as she turns her gaze back to the sky and tries to pretend that she really doesn’t care. Her hand comes up to thumb against that scar on her jaw and Toby isn’t quite sure what’s happening anymore, because she thinks he _hates_ her? He would be concerned that she’s had too much to drink, except she really hasn’t, so with no small amount of trepidation, he asks her why she thinks he hates her. She gives a shrug and sighs, a sad, defeated sound that sounds like it’s been gathering dust in the corner of her mind and she’s finally let it go.

“Everybody else does,” she admits, whispering the words like they’re a secret. “You didn’t want me around in the beginning, and yeah, we can work together now, but you always liked Paige, even when she was new.”

And, well.. she’s not _wrong_ , but God, that doesn’t mean he _hates_ her. Jesus Christ. “I never hated you,” he says, but they both know it’s a lie, and the look she gives him could curdle milk.

“You thought I was fucking _Walter_ ,” she points out before she falls silent again, and there’s nothing for Toby except the burgeoning sense of horror before it washes hot against his spine in shame, because only he knows the thoughts he had kept to himself during the early days of their relationship, cruel and bitter and angry, and every time she had stormed out of the room or disappeared after an argument, he had felt like he’d won something. And he’d never said sorry for any of it, just bought her a drink and moved on because he really didn’t give a fuck about any of it, and now? His throat _burns_ with his shame and the need to grovel.

“God, Happy I am so, so sorry. I-” _Shut up_ , she tells him, but he ignores her, because she deserves an apology. “I’m so sorry, Happy, I was angry and I made stupid assumptions and that was so wrong of me. I’m a fuck-up.” He waits with bated breath, expects her to push him away and shout at him and tell him he’s not fucking forgiven, but she doesn’t do that at all. She exhales slowly, a little shakily, but when she meets his eye, she’s smiling, tiny and genuinely, and her tone is final when she trails a finger across the skin of his knuckle, still wrapped tight around her thigh (to stop her from falling, he tells himself, but it’s a lie), and tells him that _it’s not like it matters now, anyway_.

He nods, just once, and follows her gaze down, down, down to his hand, pale against her dark jeans, and he tries to memorise the moment. His hand wraps around her so completely there’s but an inch or so of space between his thumb and his pinky, and he presses a little harder, imagines leaving fingerprint bruises smudged against her smooth skin, can’t help the smirk at the one, _one-two_ of her inhale as her breathing hitches.

And they just stay like that, close but not close enough, waiting for the sun to rise(and maybe it’s because it’s so fucking late, or way too early, or that they’re both tired, but he wraps her up in his arms and buries his face in her soft skin of her neck, and her arms come up to rest against his back, and they just stay that way, carefully entwined around each other, until there’s movement on the street below them, and it’s time to be Happy and Toby again, not _HappyandToby_ ).

-x-

**October 2016**

The next few weeks following the interview are easy and lazy, their routine sun-warmed and well-practiced, and they follow the highways and twisting country roads and everything is hazy with heat. There’s a buzz about the band that picks up somewhere between Nashville and Atlanta, there’s a surge of newcomers in the crowd that follows them, and it feels like their songs are endlessly looping on every radio station in the country.

There’s a lightness to the band as well, like a weight has been lifted, and they play fight in the dirt in Georgia, sun themselves atop the bus in Florida, and there’s even a notable (terrifying) game of chicken fight in a lake in South Carolina. For the first time in a long time, there are no troubles, no worries, no pressing concerns, just laughter and music and love.

Toby wakes up late one morning to too many Twitter notifications and a tonne of texts from friends from days yonder, congratulating him on his single. It takes longer than it should for the words to register, struggles to rub the sleep from his eyes as he racks his brain because ... _wha’?_ By the time his brain catches up, he’s pulled up a link someone has sent him and staring back at him is that song he wrote so long ago, and a helpful #2 emblazoned across the screen.

A giggle bubbles up from his chest and he smiles so hard into his pillow that his cheeks ache with it, and he has to take a second to bathe in the warm glow of success before he fucking _leaps_ out of his bunk and dances into the kitchen area in just his boxers, thrusts his limbs wildly in Paige’s face, then Ralph’s, crows _‘suck it, bitches’_ in Cabe’s face when he orders him to shut the hell up. By the time they manage to pin Toby down and get the story out of him, everyone else has staggered from their beds, grumpy and snappish, to find out what the commotion is all about.

A critic describes the song as _‘the late sleeper hit of Summer’_ , and they soon realise that kids are humming along to it in class, teens have it on repeat as they coast along in their cars on  Autumn Adventures towards the sand and the sea, and adults play it in the office until their bosses go insane - it catches on so quickly and thoroughly that it becomes a freaking _meme_ in four days, and the world refuses to turn it off. The band remains sceptical at Toby’s self-proclaimed _musical prowess_ though, Sly watching the Youtube stats climb dubiously, and Happy voicing her doubts, tells him that the world has gone crazy and that his song is still shit - Toby takes a great deal of pleasure in pointing out that millions of Americans would readily disagree with her there - and even Paige, who is tactful and polite about these things, looks confused.

(“What does it _mean_ though?” she had asked, when he had staggered from his room and pressed play and the song had finally ( _finally_ ) drawn to a close.

“It’s how I feel,” he had said, and Paige will one day laugh at him for that, for thinking that those words could explain anything other than how Toby is a bit of a weirdo if he thinks the first four bars of ‘twinkle twinkle little star’ could be considered an accurate description of his feelings. At the time, he had frowned at her pursed lips and raised eyebrow, said, “Don’t judge me, Paige. Some people have Bach, I have ‘twinkle twinkle little star’.”

“But Toby, my **son** likes it. He’s ten!”

“Well, if your son likes it, then clearly he understands the emotional depths of the song and can appreciate my use of it.” Paige hadn’t known what else to say at that, had just walked away from the conversation, utterly bemused, but there had been no more arguments left to make, and the song had made it’s way onto the album.)

When the song hits #1 just a few days later, Toby tells everyone that it’s poetic justice, and their own fault for ever doubting him.

-x-

Whatever reprieve, whatever sense of peace they get from the interview, (and they _do_ get a break, the drama easing off for a while and a few fans coming forward in support of Happy), doesn’t last for long.

It’s over almost before they realise it’s happened: one minute they’re leaving a venue via the back door, signing a few autographs and smiling at the fans, the next, there’s a yelp and Sly is on the ground, shouting in pain. There’s a bit of a scuffle in the following seconds, and confusion and chaos everywhere and Happy is crouching over Sylvester and is _screaming_ at Cabe to call an ambulance. The terror in her voice catches all the air in Toby’s lungs and his heart trips and plummets in his chest, and there’s no time for thought at all.

Toby surges forward, elbows anyone in his path out of the way until the crowd opens up and drops down next to them. It takes just a second to assess Sly’s injuries. He’s clutching a wrist to his chest, already beginning to darken with bruises, but it’s the blood that spills from a cut on his forehead that leave Toby feeling cold and shaky. Toby pulls Sly’s uninjured hand away from his chest and tangles their fingers together. He winces when Sly latches on, squeezes too tight, but he ducks forward to speak to him anyway, tells him in a low voice, as calm and as soothing as he can, that everything’s going to be okay, that he just needs to hold on and swears to him he’ll look rugged and manly on Tumblr tomorrow.

It’s harder to talk Happy down, who is babbling away on Sly’s other side, her breath coming too fast, and whose hands are slip-sliding in a pool of blood. He calls her name once, twice, but she doesn’t respond until he reaches out for her, and reels her in with a hand held firm at the back of her neck, and when she looks up, her skin is pale and her eyes are wet. He talks sweetly to her, like he’s got all the time in the world, brushes his thumb against her cheek and tells her that she needs to breathe, and that he’s there for her, promises not to leave.

The fans behind them are silent, the paps furiously clicking away, and they all huddle together as the flashing blue and red lights in the distance draw closer.

-x-

When they arrive at the hospital, after breaking many, many speeding laws, they’re ushered into an empty room and told to wait.

Walter paces the length of the room over and over again, waving his hands and arms in the air and snapping at the nurses, and it is only when Ralph tugs at his sleeve when he stalks by again that he stops, sits by him vibrating with rage. Paige reaches across Ralph, to grasp at his fingers. “Walter, Sylvester will be fine,” she says, her voice shaky in spite of her reassuring words. “The paramedics said he’s going to be okay, remember? He’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.”

Toby wants to snap at Paige, that the paramedics were two-bit failed interns that probably don’t know their clavicle from their mandible, but he’s aware that’s the adrenaline that’s coursing through his body right now - rationally he knows it’s not Paige’s fault.

Cabe is sat in the corner of the room, filling out form after form for Sly (Toby answering his occasional question - he had tried to fill them out himself, but the writing was so shaky and illegible that the nurse had simply handed Cabe a fresh sheet), his cell buzzing in silent agitation on the table in front of him. Finally, though, the spaces between the stop of one call and the start of another is so short that he slaps the clipboard down with a sharp _smack_ and stalks out of the room to take the call.

Toby witnesses this with apathy, mind running over and over the possible ways Sylvester’s injuries could have been avoided, mind wandering back to the moment he met Sylvester (when he had figured out Toby’s two-bit card con using _statistics_ and _the direction of the sun_ ) and he can’t stop the jittering of his knee as he pictures Sly arguing fiercely with Walter over Monopoly rules. Outside the room, Cabe’s voice filters in, raised and angry and clearly dealing with higher ups.

“You want me to tell them what? No, that is unacceptable. I told - _no, damn it_ ,” Cabe snaps loudly, and Toby can see Ralph cover his ears out of the corner of his eye. “No, I told these kids I wasn’t gonna let them down and I’m _not_. Find me a better option or I’ll find one myself.”

After a while, he comes back in, hands clenched and face red with anger, and with un-Cabe like petulance he throws himself back into his chair and picks up Sly’s forms again.

Toby turns to Happy, who hasn’t moved from her seat since they were chivvied into the room, goes to pick up her hand, or lay a hand on her shoulder, or just ask her if she’s _okay_ , but just then, the door swings open, and as one they all swing their faces towards a doctor. For a wild, bewildering moment Toby is terrifyingly sure that he is coming to give them bad news but he blinks, and the man is smiling and nodding at them reassuringly.

“Mr Dodd will be fine,” he says, and there is a collective sigh of relief. “He has a pretty nasty concussion, and a sprained wrist. He’ll be out of comission for a week, two at the most. He’s awake so if-” There is a sudden barrage of movement then as they all spring up from their seats to move around him, Paige throwing a _thank you so much_ behind her as they scramble for the door to Sylvester’s room, and Toby thinks he can hear the doctor reply that _really I was just gonna say if you could go one at a- oh never mind_ but honestly, he doesn’t give much of a fuck right now.

Happy is the first to reach Sylvester, puts on a brave face as she approaches the keyboardist, lying pale and sleepy-eyed in his bed as he grins goofily up at them, and Toby flicks a glance towards his med chart as he approaches (and yeah, they’ve got him on the _good_ stuff). Happy leans down to place a lingering kiss to his forehead and asks him how he’s feeling. She takes a small step back, allows them each a chance to check out Sylvester for themselves, to offer comfort (Walter with a pat on the shoulder, Toby with a fist bump, Paige on his other side running her fingers through his hair), but Happy stays close, folds Sly’s hand up inside both of hers and stares down at their tangled fingers.

Eventually though, Cabe clears his throat and informs them of what Toby has already half-guessed at. Agent Records have been increasingly dismayed with the controversies and delays surrounding their tour, he recites with obvious reluctance, and with Sylvester injured, the higher ups are looking to postpone their tour. _Indefinitely_ goes unspoken, but they aren’t idiots, they know that’s what is being said here, but before Cabe has even finished, Sylvester, dozy with the morphine, shakes his head and languorously grabs at Happy’s hand.

“Happy can do it,” he manages, eyes pleading with her, with Cabe - with anyone who’s eyes he can catch. “Happy’s good at it, she can fill in for me. We don’t have a back-up keyboardist, but…” He trails off, mouth dry and Toby automatically reaches for the glass of water on his bedside table.

“But we do have a back-up drummer,” Walter finishes. “We don’t have to cancel this, Cabe. Sly can join us, catch a flight out as soon as he’s able and meet us in Virginia. You said you didn’t want to let us down. Find a way to convince them to let us do this. _Please_.” Cabe looks over at Happy, concern and hope warring in his expression, and she nods, mechanically and on autopilot. She can do it, she whispers, and Cabe slips out to make a few calls after patting Sylvester gently on his shoulder.

There’s relief all round, smiles and Paige’s breathless laughter as they all reach for Sly again, except Happy, Toby notices, who stares at Sly, and sways a little on her feet. Toby catches her shoulder, and she seems shocked by the contact, blinking slowly at him, but not seeing much of anything at all. He excuses them as he pulls her into the corridor, wraps a hand around her waist and directs her towards the bathrooms, filches some medical supplies from a cart they pass in the hallway.

The bathroom is empty and Toby is thankful, because she looks worse under the fluorescent lighting, the blood on her hands and smeared across her cheek a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin, and he hopes that she will appreciate the moment alone and calm down. He leads her towards the sink and she turns to face him, sags against the counter like it’s the only thing holding her up.

Toby talks about anything and everything as he dabs at her cheek with the cloth he has. “Reckon we’re gonna make some nurses the best gift-givers in the world,” he murmurs as he gently scrubs at the dried flakes of blood. Her skin is clammy under his hands, and she looks past him, eyes fixed on some point only she can see on a cubicle door. “We could just sign a few autographs and their children will love them forever.” When he moves to rub at the blood away from the corner of her mouth though, she moves with alarming speed, grabbing at his hand.

“It’s my fault.” He freezes, confused but attentive. Happy looks up at him, eyes welling up but she blinks furiously, and when she looks at him again, her eyes are dry but stricken with guilt and grief. “They were coming after me, they wanted to get to _me_ , but Sylvester got in between them and me - he’s hurt because he tried to protect me. _Toby_ , it’s my fault Sylvester’s hurt and-”

She can’t get much more out before Toby grabs her by her shoulders, hauling her in tight against his chest, and tells her that she’s wrong, she isn’t to blame, but she collapses against him, whispering over and over again like a refrain, _it’s all her fault_.

-x-

Toby’s not sure what exactly Cabe says to the suits to convince them, but they’re told that they can continue on, and they do, trundling onto the next performance, and the next performance, and the next. The fans are surely ecstatic, relieved that Sly is okay and that the band plays on without him.

Happy, tentatively at first, practices their songs over and over on the keyboard, and when she gets on stage, she plays with an almost unbearable tenderness. It’s not as amazing and stunningly as when Sly plays (with mastery and command and an innate talent) but it’s emotive and measured and when she gets going, she loses herself in it almost as deeply as she does when she drums, and Toby is mesmerized by her, angles himself on stage so he can watch her as she furrows her brow and follows the music sheets she has in front of her.

It changes the way they sound, each cadence affected with a note of whimsy, belied by the effort it takes her to keep up with the rise and fall of their every verse, and when she comes off stage, she’s exhausted, but resolved.

-x-

Happy stops sleeping. No matter what time it is, no matter how late it is, three, four, five in the morning, if Toby wakes up, she’s already awake and dressed, sitting quietly in her bunk or up front with Cabe, waiting for the day to start. Toby has taken to keeping a track on how often she actually sleeps, and how long she manages to sleep for, and he wonders at first, how the hell she is even managing to stay upright, until he realises the bins are overflowing with energy drinks and coffee cups (and he can’t tell if she’s punishing herself or if she feels too guilty, wound up, and anxious to try).

The only time she gets some sleep is after a performance, passed out motionless on the bus for a few hours (and even then, Toby knows, gut churning, it takes her _hours_ to settle down, wired as she is, watching every second played back on Youtube and telling herself what she could have done better).

Paige catches her on her laptop one evening, surfing the comments on shaky fan cams of their performances, and Toby can hear Paige’s quiet pleading from the kitchen area. “Happy, please don’t do this to yourself. The… the comments don’t _matter_. None of it’s your fault.” The silence that follows speaks volumes to Toby. She can’t help herself, he knows. She scrolls, reads the vitriol, the hate, the biting snide remarks, and thinks, _it is, it’s me, they wouldn’t say these things if I wasn’t there. My fault._ The helplessness that Toby feels is mirrored in Walter’s worried gaze.

“But they’re right,” Happy eventually says, in a voice that’s low and broken, and he can see Paige lean forward to pull her into a hug. But no matter how much Paige tries to protest, to tell her that _they don’t matter_ , pointing out all these other comments that are coming out in defense of her, Happy refuses to listen. A few more minutes pass before, defeated, Paige heads out to the kitchen area to join Toby, and after a moment, Walter pushes a coffee with cinnamon towards her.

“You tried,” he says to her in a quiet voice, and she offers him a strained, sad smile. Toby sits there with them, his attention caught by the unnatural stillness in the sleeping area, the glow of her laptop and the minutes that tick over into hours.

-x-

Sly catches up with them in Richmond, happy but exhausted, and they all take the time to pull him into sweeping hugs, chattering excitedly about everything he’s missed, and pressing kisses sticky with sugar to his blushing cheeks. He swings Ralph up and over his shoulder and even Cabe slaps him on the back, tells him that _we missed you, kid_ amidst Ralph’s delighted squeals.

There’s not much time to settle in though, because they’re being led into a conference room at a fancy hotel, and being paraded in front of journalists and cameras alike. There’s not a lot to say really, just _yes, Sylvester is doing great_ , _he’ll be joining us for the rest of the tour_ and _there’s not much we can say about any possible ongoing police investigations,_ but afterwards they hire out a bar to celebrate and even Cabe, who has been angrily snapping into his phone all night about ‘taking action’, finds it in himself to buy them all a round of drinks, and toast Sly’s good health.

It’s a good day, and the celebrations stretch deep into the evening, but everybody notices Happy’s somber mood. She’s quiet all day, her smile not reaching her eyes, and she excuses herself several times. They all eye her carefully, itching to ask her if she’s okay, but they’ve been snapped at a few times by now, told repeatedly that it’s _none of their damn business,_ and it’s like walking on eggshells with her at the moment, so they all stay quiet.

When they stagger back to the bus, she collapses into her bunk and is asleep in seconds, eased into unconsciousness by too much beer and the fact that she’s been running on fumes, has been doing so for the last few days.

They’re all drained but settled, and that’s when Sly pulls Walter aside, hushed and quiet, and looking so serious that Toby, who has been in fairly high spirits all evening, instantly eyes them with concern. After a few tense moments of conversation, Walter yelps, startlingly loud into the night. “She WHAT?” Everyone lifts their heads up from where they have collapsed, exhausted and Walter eyes Happy, still and silent, and corrals them outside the bus.

Sly tells them, haltingly and looking more than a little guilty, how he had overheard her outside the bar when he went to the bathroom, how she mentioned wanting to quit. “She was _crying_ to her _dad_ ,” he tells them. “She wants out after this tour, and we need to find a way to make her want to stay,” he says, looking serious and worried and intense, and the determination shines bright in his eyes.

Toby watches everyone react to the revelation, sees Paige agree, looking shocked and sad as she sniffles and he lets Walter storm off into the dark, flinches at the telltale sounds of destruction and angry cursing that follows, but he doesn’t move at all, the alcohol sitting uncomfortably in his stomach because _Happy wants to leave?_

-x-

The next few days are strange, and Happy would have to be blind not to notice that something was up. It’s just that nobody knows how to bring it up in a way that _won’t_ make her fly off the handle or pack her bags right then. It’s a big secret to keep though, and although they’re fucking terrible at being subtle about it, they try to carry on as usual, which means throwing everything back on the bus and throwing smiles to the fans in the crowd (and God, it feels _right_ seeing Sylvester at his customary position at the keyboard and Happy practically dwarfed by her drumkit and Toby really doesn’t want this to end).

After one performance in Pittsburgh, there are more journalists hanging around outside than they have become accustomed to, and it’s more than a little overwhelming to be confronted with a bright wall of camera flashes and sunny smiles. There’s questions over questions over questions, all shouted at once, but there’s a couple that ring a little louder above the din. “Homeland Security, do you know what charges are going to be made against the fans that attacked Sylvester?” asks a particularly pushy reporter. “And what do you think of some of the public apologies that are emerging online?”

They all stare blankly at the journalist who waits, pen at the ready, but the questions have startled them into silence, and they all turn to Cabe, who rolls his eyes and hurries them towards the bus. “You going to get out of my way, or am I going to have to make you?” he snaps at the cameras, and then he’s pushing them up the steps, collaring Paige as she tries to apologise to the paps. “Get on the damn bus, I’ll explain when we’re on the road.” He grabs a techie by the shirt and pushes him towards the front seat and follows them up onto the bus.

The band meeting is a bit of a mess, no matter how much effort Cabe expends trying to keep them all calm and quiet. He tells them that the investigation is reaching its conclusion, and that there will be a trial (and how it’s being rushed forward) because Sylvester had been hurt, and yes, he’d recovered quickly, but it could have been a lot worse.

“These whackjobs can’t just think they can get away with this sort of crap without retribution,” he says, sounding fiercely protective and furious at the mention of the incident. There’s a lot of hollering and whooping and questions, _so many questions,_ but Toby just turns his attention on Happy, who is sat still and quiet in the corner, studiously avoiding his gaze as she blushes. She doesn’t react at all to the news that the instigators have been rounded up through security cameras, eye witnesses and social media, but Toby smiles big enough for the both of them, glad that justice has been swift.

-x-

They’re apparently worse at being subtle than they all thought though, because it takes less than a fortnight for the speculation to start cropping up, and before long the rumours are starting to dog them, of a falling out initially, then of a potential break up, and she doesn’t seem to understand what’s changed, but Happy seems content enough to go along with them when, for the next month or so, they refuse any and all interviews. It only serves to fuel the fire, and Cabe spends a lot of the time whilst they’re on stage shouting down the phone whilst he watches over Ralph, fielding journalist after journalist and having long arguments with the lawyers of Agent Records.

The papers label Walter as ‘testy’ and all the articles mention how distant Happy is, how she rarely interacts with the fans at all and how often they’re photographed without her, and although the seats aren’t empty, and there isn’t that antagonistic silence when Happy walks on stage, there aren’t enthusiastic cheers either.

Toby often opens Tumblr up now to reams and reams of panicky fans on the ‘Homeland Security’ tag, worrying that they’ll break up after the tour, and there’s nothing they can say to soothe their worries that wouldn’t be a lie.

Still they go on, _because they have to,_ but the only thing they take from the situation is the loss of whatever it was that was so antagonistic between Walter and Cabe.

And dread.

Lots and lots of dread.

-x-

They’re somewhere on the long stretch of road between Cleveland and Philadelphia when Toby wakes up, unsure why, but when he blinks blearily into the dark, his eyes slowly adjust and Happy’s form appears in shadows, curled up on her bunk, knees drawn tight up against her chest, arms tightly wrapped around her legs. Maybe it’s because it’s the night before the er... thing (the _trial_ , his addled mind supplies) but she’s tense, and obviously not going to be getting any sleep anytime soon and, to be honest, it’s not like he can go back to sleep knowing that she’s up.

Toby clambers out of his bunk as quietly as he can, freezing when his ipod, caught up in the sheets, tumbles to the ground. Nobody moves, and Happy watches him warily as he approaches her, but lets him pry her fingers away from where they’re probably digging bruises into her skin and take her by the hand. She’s stiff with tension and mostly her limbs refuse to cooperate, so it takes a while, and an arm wrapped tight around her waist, to lead her into the kitchenette and push her down into a chair.

Neither of them talk whilst Toby pulls mugs out off racks and milk from the fridge and Happy just sits there as Toby makes them both hot chocolate (a splash of Baileys in the bottom, squirty cream on hers), wraps her hands around it when he slides it across to her and breathes it in. He takes the seat opposite her, and there’s a silence that stretches out as they just savour the drink, the _chocolatewarmthalcohol_ that washes away Happy’s frown and the strain around her eyes, and when she’s blinking slowly, chin propped up against her hand, he asks her, voice still thick with sleep, what she wants to happen tomorrow at the trial.

She gives a tired sigh and shrugs, and says nothing at all until he presses his knee against hers under the table, nudges her until she gives in. “I just want it to stop,” she admits, half entranced by the finger she passes round and round the rim of her mug. “I don’t care if they’re punished for whatever they said, as long as no one else gets hurt,” she says, and it’s low and quiet against Cabe’s soft snores and Walter’s sleep-induced mutterings.

It’s a strange answer, given that the fans have been harassing and needling at her for _months_ , and then they _tried to hurt her_. “But what about like... Justice!” he prods, because nothing anyone could ever say will ever convince him that she deserves any of it.

Happy scoffs, drags her gaze away from her hands to look at him, and the smile she shoots him is soft, and sad, and fond, and she tells him, like one would a child, that, “I grew up in foster care, Toby. Justice isn’t a thing for wards of the state. It’s just what they sell in Disney movies.”

And the way she says it feels a bit like being steamrolled by her words. It’s just another fact of life for her, a universal truth. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and _justice isn’t a thing for wards of the state_.

He sits there, unable to do anything but stare helplessly at her, mug cooling rapidly under his fingers, because every time he thinks he understands her, begins to know what makes her tick, he finds himself blindsided by another facet of her of her character. How can she think of herself as any less important than Sly? How can she not see how precious she is to them? To Walter, whose fucking life she saved? To Cabe, who watches over her like a daughter? To Paige who adores her strength and courage, to Sylvester for whom Happy might as well have strung the stars in the sky? To _him_? How can she not understand that looking at her is like being stripped bare, that her presence is a tight band across his chest and that her smile squeezes his heart painfully, because _God_ , how can she not see how loved she is?

And he wants to burst out with it, _I love you_ , but the words lodge, catch in his throat, struck dumb as he is by the realisation.

He is in love with Happy Quinn.

-x-

**November 2016**

The trial is a particularly gruesome affair that stretches on through the morning and well into the afternoon. There’s a truly horrific amount of evidence to be put forward, and as the results of the investigation are laid bare before the jury, it’s probably safe to say that Happy is too. There’s... a lot that she hasn’t told them, plenty of scary secrets locked up inside her that come tumbling out across the courtroom floor, and every online post and comment threads together a terrifying narrative.

Happy has stalkers. _Plural._ Or close enough to stalkers anyway. They’d all known that she read the comments, and was rightfully distraught over them, but there’s been things. _Other things_. Things like death threats, thousands and thousands of tweets and direct messages telling her that she’s disgusting, that she deserves to die, that someday, someone was going to catch up with her and it’s like ... well, shit. Because there’s disliking someone and disagreeing with their principles and actions and there’s actively deciding to do something about it - and these girls? These rabid fans of Mark and Walter, still disgruntled over a year later, hated her badly enough, _irrationally_ enough to want to get rid of her (and _God_ , they cry on the stand and can’t even tell anyone **_why_ ** they want to _rip her limb from limb_ ).

There’s hundreds upon thousands of comments, and legions of fans across each messageboard, and even a fucking update account with a vast network of mods that track her every move, should anyone want to ‘throw out the trash’, as their profile suggests, over and over with photo edits to inspire, and it’s all being splashed across the internet in explicit, gory detail.

There’s a brief recess as the jury deliberates, but when the jurors are called back and the court is once again in session, Happy is nowhere to be found. There’s a handful of defendants and a long list of charges, and all but one fan is found guilty, but Happy isn’t around to hear the banging of the gavel or the courthouse to descend into chaos, and they all cry a little (with relief, with _anger_ ) but when they drag themselves to their hotel, Cabe tells them that she’s in _308_ , and they all run to her.

They find her curled up in a chair, back to the door, looking through the railings of the balcony and staring vacantly down at the city below. She seems surprised when they all pile into the room, turning and blinking up at them, soft and slow as she whispers _hello_.

Walter regards her with a stunned expression, looking like he doesn’t know whether to scoop her up into a hug or shake her. “You never said,” Walter says, despair bleeding into his tone. “All this time and you never said a single thing. _Why_ , Happy?”

She bites her lip, and mutters something dismissive about how _it’s not like it mattered,_ and Toby knows she means it’s not like _she_ matters, and he thinks Walter does to, because between one breath and the next, he ducks down next to her and reels her in tight, and swears he won’t let it happen ever again.

Everybody hangs back and lets them have their moment, lets Walter whisper promises into her hair as she goes lax against him. Toby doesn’t know how quite to comfort her, can’t help but feel like maybe he’s somehow to blame, for being so involved with the fans but failing to notice the lengths they’d go to hurt her, for not being someone that she felt she could confide in, and he suspects that he’s not the only one that no longer knows quite how to react around her anymore (thinks they’re all scared, second guessing every action and every word) and so the trial sits between them and festers beneath their skin.

-x-

In the weeks that follow, there’s a wave of Happy positivity that appears from out of nowhere, and a lot of fans (the Walter girls, the Sly girls, and the Toby girls who had been quite content to sit back and let the drama unfold, dabble with the Happy hate as they saw fit), realise how juvenile and horrible they’ve been, taking down their essays and articles, apologising for their actions. There’s several hashtags that trend worldwide, (‘quinnforqueen’ and ‘thinkhappythoughts’ and ‘happyfuckingquinn’), and a drawing of battlelines between the reformed and those who persist in tearing Happy down.

There’s a media frenzy in the following days as well, as journalists speak out in support of Happy and there are articles picking apart misogyny in the music industry over and over, printed in every newspaper across the country, and it’s wonderfully inspiring to see people unite in support of Happy, but it’s too little, too late.

The trial is over, but it still weighs on her - like the comments are indelible scars on her skin.

Three weeks later, after they’re dragged off stage, to the abhorrence of the fans, still manic with excitement and love, she tells them she wants out after the tour.

-x-

Walter is the first to recover, blinking himself out of his stupor to say, sounding incredulous and cutting, “You can’t be serious.” But she is, stares back at them, steady but scared, as Paige nods, just the once, like it’s a truth she’s not going to quibble, just accept, a little sadly, but earnestly all the same. Sly puts up more of a fuss, looking _devastated_ as he tugs at his fingers, and begs her not to go.

“Who will I watch The Flash with? And what about our dominoes tournament?” He asks. Walter runs a hand through his hair and yanks ruthlessly at his curls.

“No,” he says. “No! We can talk about this, figure something out!”

Happy watches Walter as he paces back and forth, and she looks sad, but final when she speaks up, voice flat when she tells them that _there’s nothing left to say_ , like it’s a long forgotten thought that wells up inside her, half-practiced. She turns away from them then, looking small and defeated as she walks away from the destruction, crawls into her bunk, and draws the curtain without another word. Walter moves to follow her, but Cabe is a step ahead, wrapping his hand around Walter’s bicep and telling him to _leave her be, kid_.

Toby doesn’t say a word as they devolve into panicked hysterics. He feels adrift, like it hasn’t sunk in yet - his fingertips still tingle with the twang and strum of steel, his t-shirt still clings to his back, sticky with sweat from the heat of the stage lighting, and his ears still ring a little, from the screams and the shouts and the euphoria, (and he wishes with all of his heart that he heard wrong, but he knows he didn’t).

She can’t leave. She can’t.

He stares at the curtain that separates Happy from the rest of them for the longest time, but nothing changes.

-x-

Walter spends the next week coming up with reason after reason for why Happy should stay with them (should see this thing to the very end of the road) but each argument he throws her way is met with a stony sort of silence. Sly had joined him initially, before Walter’s excuses had started wearing thin, but she had pulled him aside one evening before their second performance in Delaware. Toby doesn’t know what she says, but Sly subsides (though he still throws wounded looks at her behind her back).

Walter remains persistent, though, and despite agreeing with him, Toby wishes that Walter would just _shut up_ because he thinks all this is going to do is drive her further away from them, as adamant as she is that she cannot be swayed from her position. He gives her the space he thinks she needs to think this over, hopes that along the long stretches of road that she watches from the front, feet propped up on the dashboard as she sings along to Cabe’s country tunes and old time rock, she will realise that her decision was a knee jerk reaction, that it doesn’t have to come down to this.

Paige cries a little, has to excuse herself to the back of the bus when Ralph asks her over chemistry homework why Happy wants to leave, because how can they explain to this ten year old kid that Happy is weary, and emotionally wrung out, and has all these adult issues that no kid should need to deal with (problems too big and cruel for Happy herself to understand).

They don’t have an answer for him.

-x-

It feels like they’re all just limping towards the end now, and it’s quiet, sad - almost like they’re just counting down the days until it’s time to pack up and go home, focussed as they’re are on their inevitable fall (and even now, it feels like it’s already happened, because Happy is avoiding them all). She distances herself from them, like she’s trying to make it easier on her or easier on them - and it infuriates Toby, as much as he can see the reasoning and the logic behind it. It’s been two weeks since she made her intentions clear to them, and he honestly would have thought that she would have realised by now, that this is a _terrible_ idea.

This band, this fucking rag tag bunch of narcissistic musicians, precocious children and protective managers is, he knows, the closest thing she has to a family. He sees how much she relies on Cabe’s guidance, on Walter’s inability to put with her shit (and who isn’t afraid to call her out on _everything_ ), and Toby knows she has found a family in Paige and in Ralph, how she has a brother to dote on in Sly.

(He doesn’t know how to put into words, _their_ relationship, only that it comes alive at three in the morning, in shared secrets on a balcony overlooking Memphis, under the fragile glimmer of Ferret Bueller, in the _tick-tock_ ingof a fucking clock.)

He recalls again, the look on her face, the bleakness and the finality in her tone when she had replied to Walter, _there’s nothing left to say_.

And all he can think is, **_bullshit_**.

-x-

**December 2016**

He lets the frustration and the confusion build, as they enter the final stages of their tour, coasting down the edges of New York as the nights grow longer and colder, and the fairy lights and holiday cheer really starts to piss him off.

They get into an argument before a performance about the order of their setlist, and it harks back to the sort of fight they used to have way back in the beginning (where they were rage and a scoring system, an ever evolving _game, set and match_ ), made all the worse by the uneasy silence that stretches between them and back since that quiet moment when she had told them she wanted to leave, and he had spent too long watching over her and waiting for her to take the words back. It leaves him feeling like there’s an itch under his skin that this pointless hope he’s been nurturing just can’t scratch, and the performance is a fucking mess for it. Toby corners her afterwards, drags her away into a darkened corner and huffs at her defiant scowl.

“There’s nothing left to say?” he snaps. “What sort of bullshit answer is that, Happy?”

Happy wrestles her arm free from his iron grip, looking furious and she hisses back at him, “Are you nuts? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your fucking decision to leave the band! What, now you’ve had your fill of fame and glory you’re just gonna up and leave us?” Her eyes narrow, and her voice is low and dangerous when she spits his words back in his face, asks him which particular part of her _fucking decision_ did he not understand?

They fight furiously and in circles, throwing every word like they’re ripping open old wounds, dragging out age-old arguments and raking up inconsequential little things (how he always leaves the toilet seat up, that he thought she _slept_ her way into the band, and he retaliates in kind, tells her that drumming her fingers on every single fucking surface? It isn’t exactly cute, goes on to complain how she’s always too scared to say what she means, asks her how can she expect anyone to even bother if she won’t even let them try? Because it’s the definition of insanity to try time and time again and expect a different outcome) - and it gets dirty and nasty and every private conversation they’ve ever had is dragged out into the open, and he is sick and _tired_ of this softly-softly approach now, _done_ with giving her space, mad that she is still so adamant that nothing will change her mind, that she is going to leave this all behind, all of _them_ behind, and he tells her so. He lets all the poison that’s been festering inside well up and lets her take the full force of his wrath, and when it’s all over and there’s nothing left to say, and they’re stood too close and panting harshly, she turns her back on him and walks away from it, tells him over her shoulder that she’s _done_.

He laughs, bitter and broken, and he shouts after her retreating figure, asks her, _“Does that mean you’re done with me too?”_

-x-

He’s not able to sleep that night, stomach churning and feeling sick and restless as 1am becomes 2am becomes 3am, and the silence echoes out in all directions. His lips are pursed around a cigarette, unlit only because it’s too fucking cold to go outside (and he’s got a deck of cards too, shuffled and reshuffled, but the only thing that stops him from finding a table is that he can no longer keep track of the city names and venues, and to leave his room is to lose himself in a maze of unfamiliar sights).

Toby stares at the wall and knows that she’s staying just three doors down, and he wants to go to her and demand a proper answer, and maybe beg her to not go, because he still can’t quite get his mind around the entire affair. Happy wants to leave, and when she does his whole fucking world is going to end, and it makes him want to take shelter from her decision in his own bed (back _home_ , not even a speck in the side mirrors of his life anymore), and curl up under his comforter and cry.

He’s startled from his thoughts when there’s a knock at his door quiet, but firm, and he blinks when he opens it and she’s staring up at him, spinning her rings nervously. “I’m not,” she says, looking like she’s sharing a long kept secret. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about, because he never fucking does, and he goes to say something, apologize or shout, he doesn’t know, but she interrupts him. “Don’t talk,” she says. “ _Don’t_ ruin it,” like he can say anything at all, but he can’t because she’s stepping into his space, so close they’re sharing the same breaths, and he can read her face for once, like a fucking open book. (All her walls, down, down, _down_ ; there’s nothing but _Happy_ behind her eyes) and he stands stock still as she takes him in, and then she’s reaching up on her toes and tugging him down for a kiss.

He’s frozen for a moment, suspects they both are, but her inaction becomes action and she backs him into the room, the door swinging shut, but the only thing he can focus on is the warm press of her lips, her hair caught around his fingers, the solid feeling of her curves pressing up against him. He licks his way into her mouth, eager, already ( _Jesus_ ) half hard. He doesn’t think he can get enough of her, (still not entirely sure she isn’t some hugely vivid figment of his imagination), except she’s walking him backwards, and he goes with her until his calves hit the bed, and _God, what is she doing_ because she’s snaking a hand down into his pants, worming her way past his flimsy boxers and taking him in hand. And _shit, okay_ not a dream, because his imagination isn’t this good, and he tries to say so, can’t stop the involuntary thrust of his hips into her hand, pants “Oh _God,_ Happy,” against her mouth, and it’s clear from her slow steady, rhythmic pumping of his cock that she can play him just as well as her drumkit.

He snakes a hand up her top, wants to weep at how silky soft her skin is, the way she shivers as he grazes the underside of her bra with his thumb - and then she’s releasing him, shifting backwards. He freezes again, terrified she’s changed her mind, but she just pulls her top up and over her head, and she’s back again, kissing the hell out of him and he lets himself run his hands up and down the expanse of her back. She arches into him as he ducks his head down to mouth at her breast through the fabric of her bra, feels immensely gratified, primitively _proud_ when he can _feel_ her nipple stiffen with his ministrations, and he wants to smile, but moans into the hollow of her breastbone instead, kisses bruises into her skin with his lips and teeth and tongue.

Happy grinds a little harder against him, and he can’t do this - he’ll come in his pants - twists his body until she’s the one being pushed down on the bed, and he’s the one hovering over her. He lets his hand trail goosebumps down her stomach, lingers at the waistband of her shorts until she lifts her hips and he can push them down her legs, brushes his fingers along the outside of her panties - damp already - and he’s a little impressed, and when he speaks, he can barely recognise his own voice, his words coming out low and rough when he comments, because she’s so eager already _sweetheart_ , and she can’t exactly hide the twitch of her thighs or the moan that breaks free, and _yeah... Sweetheart_.

He runs his hands up her inner thighs, teases her with it, dances his way along the edges of her underwear, skating close then away again, over and over as she chases him with with her hips until she snaps at him to _get to it, Curtis_ and his breath rattles in his chest and he thinks to himself _okay_. He pushes her underwear aside and presses into her, one, two fingers, blunt and thick, and she’s _so fucking wet already_ and his mouth goes dry and he is captivated by her. She fists the sheets as he sets up a smooth rhythm, his thumb circling her clit as her thighs shake and she chokes back a moan, and there is a buzzing in his ears, a low rumble that he does not initially recognise as his own voice, but when he blinks and focuses, he hears himself babbling about how beautiful she is, ( _so fucking hot sweetheart, how amazing she looks like this falling to pieces,_ and _don’t you want to darling, let it go, let go)_ , and she loosens one hand to grab him by the collar, tugs him towards her to kiss him, chanting at him to _shut up, shut up, just shut up_.

He’s three fingers deep in her when she quivers and clamps down, tightens around him as she comes. He swallows her moans as she does, pulls back a little to look at her, spread out on his bed. She’s breathtaking, everything he’s wanted and more, and he’s hard as hell and desperate to be deep inside of her (and he considers the possibility of her telling him to stop, pushing him away, and he thinks if she wants to end this here, he would, his balls are blue as hell but he’d _stop_ ), but she reaches for him, and he dips down again to kiss her through the aftermath of her orgasm until her kisses become more pressing, more persistent.

She shucks him of his own pants, tugs his shirt off and peels her panties down over her hips, and he is relieved-frustrated-grateful when she stills him with a hand on his chest, pushes him away as she tells him _condom, fuck, now_ and it takes too long to find one, distracted as he is by her skin ( _so much skin_ ), and the mantra of _God_ , and _Happy_ , and _fuck_ , and _yes_ that tugs at his concentration.

When he finally manages to find one, he frees it from its packaging with shaky fingers, nearly drops it when she snakes a hand up her back and her bra falls away, and he can’t help but let his eyes drop to her chest, watches the rise and fall of her breasts before dragging his eyes up to her face, flushed and wanting and he finds himself breathless; she’s so beautiful it’s like a punch in the gut.

“Ready for round two already, darling?”He manages, watches her own eyes dart from his mouth to his eyes before she manages a smirk and reaches down to grip him again, and _shitfuck_ she drags a torturously slow thumb over the head of his cock until he is slick with his own precome and he is mindlessly thrusting into her hand.

“What, that was round one? You even gonna last that long?” Happy laughs, deep and low and he wants to chase that sound into her mouth, find it and capture it, except she’s literally got him by his dick and he can’t _think_. “You’re so ready. Few more strokes, Curtis, and I think _you_ might just blow your load.” He nearly sobs then, when she pulls her hand away, but she’s rolling the condom on him, and then his cock is pressing up against her cunt and _jesusshitfuck_ he wants to draw this out, take it slow and steady and draw orgasm after orgasm out of her. He holds onto her with a hand on her hip, his fingers pressing marks into her flesh, and with the other, holds himself up against the mattress. He pushes in; barely an inch, stops because _God_ he just wants to _tease_ her, watch her fall apart under him like nothing else matters but his skin and her skin and sweat and _heat_ and _release_ , and he drops down then, lips nuzzling her ear and whispers a litany of what he wants to do, what she feels like, how she sounds right now, low toned and husky.

“Fuck, you look so pretty, just look at you. Jesus, I - _fuck_ \- I knew you’d like this. You love it, don’t you? You look so good, so fucking hot just waiting for me. Wanted this for so long, sweetheart, love how you look in my bed, love - _Jesusfuck_ ”, he can’t - he doesn’t even _try_ to finish then, just drops his head down on her shoulder because Happy hitches a leg up around his back with a _stop talking, just stop_ and thrusts _up_ and slides him _in_. _Jesus_ , he swears against her neck because she’s unbelievably hot and tight and so wet for him (and he’s vaguely aware he is gasping it out against her skin) and he can’t even help himself, thrusts in and out of her, grinds down against her against the bed, every fucking slide and drag of skin exquisite torture. She whines low at the back of her throat, chants _ohgodohgodohgod_ as she paints her need on his back with her nails and he wishes he had the ability to tell her _not God, just Toby_ except she’s dragging him down for a desperate kiss, sloppy and messy and out of control and she’s canting herself upwards, taking him deeper with every snap of her hips. God he’s close, he’s so fucking close, can feel it build and - his vision goes blurry then, greying at the edges, and he hears a whimper and doesn’t know (or care) if it’s his or Happy’s because he’s coming and coming _hard_.

When he comes back to himself, he finds himself slowing down, and sluggishly works himself through the remnants of his ejaculation until he’s shaky and wobbly and dizzy. She makes a frustrated noise and grinds up against him, tells him _don’t fucking stop_ , and he huffs a laugh at her, says _yes love_ , and runs his hand down her body to get her off again against his palm, until she’s shaking and digging her fingers into his shoulders and biting so hard on her bottom lip he thinks she might actually bloody it because it slips out, _nng, Toby_ and _oh God,_ want and desire rushes through him even though he is no way ready to go again. He watches her fall to pieces, fucks her with his fingers again and again until it becomes too much for her and she has to bat his hand away and, after flinging the used condom off the side of the bed, he finally drops his body down beside her and presses an exhausted kiss on her temple.

-x-

He wakes to find her gone, rolls over in bed and palms a mattress that holds the indent of her weight, but none of the warmth of her skin, and his heart stumbles under the assault of memories. He lets himself _drown_ in them, remembers the soft skin of her inner elbow and the hollow of her throat and sinks back into the sheets until he can no longer ignore the way that he’s still sticky and cold with sweat and sex. He does eventually manage to drag himself to the shower, and he can’t stop the goofy grin that spreads across his face, or hide the wince as the spray of water hits his back, and wants, a little stupidly, for her to have stayed, to crowd against her in the shower and sweep his hands across her body to relearn her curves.

He isn’t surprised that she ducked away under the cover of night, feels rather like he’d maybe been subconsciously prepared for it (because _God_ , he knows her, feels like he could probably predict every anxious thought she’s ever had, and knows instinctually that sometimes, it’s okay for things to have _meaning_ , as long as they don’t mean _too much_ , and to stay the night, to wake up sated and sleepy, is all kinds of Significant and Scary), and that’s okay. She’s a little neurotic, and he loves her anyway, and she’s changed her mind (he remembers asking her if she was going to give up already, and her _I’m not_ still rings in his ears so long after), and he can’t not smile when everything is so fucking right in the world.

When he’s clean and dry, he collapses back into bed and falls asleep again, buries his face into the pillow, breathes in the lingering remains of sweat and steel and the polish and white spirit.

-x-

When he wakes up again, too late in the day and still floating on cloud nine, it’s to a flurry of movement and preparation for their Last Show, the biggest venue to date before they’re set to haul ass back to California in the morning, back _home_ , and to more empty notebooks and unwritten chords, (and Cabe had promised, swore to them all that he’ll get them another album, pulled them all into a group huddle before he’d pushed them all away just a moment later, calling them _children_ and telling them to _shake a leg, time’s a-wastin’_ ), and they’re all stupidly, ridiculously excited now they know it’s not an ending.

He searches the corridors for Happy, trails back and forth but spies no sign of her, and he would worry, except he’s not seen Sly either, or Paige, like everyone’s been swept up in the commotion and they’re all riding the tide in different directions, and he _loves_ touring, he really does, but he’s half gunning for the finish line too, wants to press Happy into a darkened corner and ride through the post-performance high with her. He wants her again, in the early morning sunshine and on the kitchen table, wants to make her coffee and watch her brush her teeth and share a thousand moments with her. He can see how good they can be together, can imagine getting their own space, away from Walter and Sly, (and maybe Paige and Ralph too, in a few months), and he wants to carry on touring with her, see her every which way he turns, and _start a life together_.

He wants it all with her, just needs to fucking _find_ her first. Out of habit, he checks his phone, frowns at the scarily high number of notifications flashing across his feed as his Twitter updates, hysterical tears and triumphant joy and the same link, repeated over and over. He clicks on it, and as the words and images load, his stomach drops, and his blood runs cold, and his world comes crashing down on him because there’s a single update on the Homeland Security Official Website, in big bold letters against an urgent yellow background.

_‘It is after much deliberation, and with a heavy heart that I must inform you all that I will be leaving Homeland Security after our cross country tour ends. I have been blessed to be able to spend this year with Walter, Toby, Sylvester and Paige, and the many people I have come to know along the way. I will never forget this period of my life, nor the sacrifices that have been made to afford me such an amazing opportunity. It has been solely my own decision to take a step back from performing with Homeland Security, as I believe that, due to personal reasons, I would only be holding them back from discovering even greater heights - and I wish with all my heart that they will continue to do so. Although I am unsure of where my next road will lead, I hope that you will all wish me luck in my next endeavour, and I will continue to support Homeland Security in all that they do._

_Keep believing in math and science,_

_Happy Quinn.’_

-x-

The concert drags on in fits and starts, and Toby is left scrabbling for every second, frantically trying to memorise it all, and failing miserably, and it’s _horrible_. He usually goes into his own world in his head when he is up on stage, where the music _is_ his world, where the notes and the chords and the harmony throb in time with his pulse, and the screams of the fans drown out the negativity in his life. The stage has always been his escape. But tonight his usual laconic stance, the ability to _forget_ isn’t present and his fingers play out the chords almost mechanically, and his heart beats out a rhythmic staccato _Happy Happy Happy_ because she still wants to leave, and yesterday wasn’t a beginning, it was a fucking _goodbye_ , and there is every possibility that when this performance finishes, he will crawl off the stage and die.

He knows that this is their last show, the one that they need to make as big, as flashy and as damn showy as they can, but it’s not possible, not when his thoughts jump from the way Happy gasped when he stroked her hip, the curve of her back now as she riffs a little on the tail end of ‘ _Made You Look’_ , and he can’t let her leave, (not when _I would only be holding them back_ is all that seems to matter to her). And if this is going to be their last fucking performance, if she is going to up and disappear, run from them (from _him_ ) and leave a gaping wound in his heart, he won’t let her go without letting her know how he feels.

Toby watches her for a beat, focussed solely on her drums, and he eyes Walter and Paige and Sly, lost in the music, considers the screaming fans, some half-hysterical at the news, and the only thing he can think is ‘fuck it’. He drops back a little onstage, lets his muscle memory take over his chords and abandons his little red ‘x’, ( _sorry techies,_ he thinks distractedly), in favour of inching towards Happy, ignoring the frantic looks Walter and Sly shoot his way. The song wavers a little when he stumbles over the fret, misses a few notes completely to pull his in-ears out. She scowls at him, when he drops the song all together to pull hers out too, skips over her irritated _what the hell are you doing_ to duck down close to speak against the shell of her ear.

“Can we talk?” She stares at him incredulously, and then like he’s lost his damn mind, which is a distinct possibility. _I don’t think now’s the best time for that, do you?_ she snaps, which is true and false in equal measure. It’s not a good time, but he wants answers, or truths, or whatever, and the moment they’re free to go, she’s going to run so fast he’ll probably never see her again, and he really, _really_ doesn’t want that. “You never held any of us back,” he tells her, honest and earnest and desperate for her to understand. The steady rhythm of her bass and tom falters for a second, and it’s either the in he needs, or he’s going to die at her hand in the next few seconds. “You made us so much _better_ and you didn’t even notice. You make Walter take responsibility for himself. You made him face up to his problems and you made him grow the fuck up. And God, Sly _idolizes_ you, and he should! You’re so strong, Happy, and everyday you’re around, he learns a little of your strength, and he needs it. And you’re crazy if you think Paige doesn’t understand that you’re the one that took a chance on her, and that Ralph loves you.”

She turns to him slowly, looking wide eyed and vulnerable and hesitant, and it feels a little like heartbreak to realize that she doesn’t understand how much they all adore her, the kind of heartbreak that echoes in the palms of his hands.

Toby sighs, because this is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous that this is something she needs to hear, and it’s ridiculous that she’s hearing it _now_ after she’s already made her decision and it’s fucking _ridiculous_ that she’s hearing it in front of thousands of other people.

“You make me a better person everyday,” he admits quietly as he takes her in, flushed from the heat of the lights, and looking soul-wrenchingly pretty for it. “Because nobody cuts through my shit quite like you, my dear. So please... Don’t go.”

There’s silence between them, and Toby realizes, rather belatedly, that the music that has defined their lives for over a year has fallen away, and his fingers are still and sore and Happy is clutching uselessly at her drumsticks (and Walter and Paige and Sly are front and centre and talking amicably amongst themselves and to the fans through microphones) and she looks _terrified_ , and Toby thinks he probably does too. He needs her to understand how important she is, how amazing and beautiful and talented, and at some point, in the (very) distant future, he needs her to understand that he’s stupidly, _stupidly_ in love with her.

“We _want_ you here. All of us do, even Cabe - probably especially Cabe, actually - and you’re so... God, you’re so fucking _special_. So please don’t go. Don’t leave me, sweetheart.”

He feels drained suddenly, pulled too thin and out of breath, and he sucks in air until his lungs feel fit to burst and holds it, barricades it behind the way he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, and pretends that he’s not about to have a fucking heart attack. Happy remains silent, like she has been throughout it all, (and _fuck_ she’s been too quiet because he’s said too much, gave away too much for her to feel comfortable taking and _ohmygod he’s ruined it all_ and shit, is his chest supposed to hurt like that?), and she stares at him, looking startled and overwhelmed and hurt. There’s a sea of curious whispers from the fans around them, from the band itself if that’s Sylvester talking right now, but the silence stretches out between them, like it’ll go on forever, and Toby thinks vaguely, _well, that’s that_ , already imagining the bottle of gin he’ll need to nurse his wounds and his _stupid_ , broken heart.

He moves to stand, his knees creaking with the strain of crouching for so long, and he feels ten years older than he did five minutes ago, and his stomach feels heavy, and his feet numb, and the only word his brain can throw at him is _okay_. _I’m okay_ , he tells himself.

(It’s a lie.)

Except then she’s dropping her drumsticks, letting them clatter to the stage floor and following him when he half-staggers a step backward, and she reaches for him, tangles her fingers into his shirt and pulls him down into a searing kiss.

It’s soft and wet and needy, and when she opens up to it, her jaw slackening under his palm, he licks into her mouth, sweeps his palm up the curve of her spine when she shivers into it. The fans go fucking wild, screaming and hollering and stamping their feet, and the noise rings painfully in Toby’s ear, almost drowns out the way Happy moans, low and thick and pleased.

There’s flashes of light against the inside of his eyelids, and the clicking of a hundred shutters at once, and without thinking, Toby spins them around so his back is to the audience, swallows Happy’s surprised yelp and kisses her more insistently, mutters swears beneath his breath when he tries to pull her closer and remembers the guitar that hangs between them. She pulls away from him on a laugh and buries her helpless giggles into his shirt as the noise around them escalates again to deafening levels, and he laughs too, relieved and happy and excited, and he wraps her up in his arms, impossibly small and compact, and shoots Walter an apologetic grin over his shoulder.

-x-

“HOLY SHIT QUINTIS IS REAL??? #iwasthere #amaze #homelandsecurityband #homelandsecurity #thedebuttour”

[northerngirlchild](http://northerngirlchild.tumblr.com/post/116800504068/melancholylouis-thebassistmademelook-ew-what):

> [melancholylouis](http://melancholylouis.tumblr.com/post/116768062667/thebassistmademelook-ew-what-the-hell-was):
>
>> [thebassistmademelook](http://thebassistmademelook.tumblr.com/post/116764619646/ew-what-the-hell-was-that):
>>
>>> ew what the hell was that
>> 
>> okk kiddies, gather round, sometimes when 2 people care about each other v much, thry show each other and that is so not ur place to fucking judge, assholr
> 
> melancholylouis used ‘Fuck You’ Takedown:  _it’s super effective!_  (bassist, no1curr ok)

   
“they kissed! they kisSED! are they together?? I DON’T UNDERSTAND, SOMEONE EZPLAIN #homelandsecurity #quintis”

_“_ @tobymcurtis @happyquinn OMG! I HAVE SHIPPED YOU ALL ALONG #KNEWIT #HOMELANDSECURITY”

 “#quintis?? Eh, I will believe it when they actually say it themselves. kthxbai. #homelandsecurityband #noloveforwalter?”

-x-

**May 2017**

“...and as all you lovely followers know, Toby and Happy have been dodging the paps recently (and yeah, your lovely admins here don’t blame them), but they obvs couldn’t avoid them here at the Billboard Music Awards show. And we are so _so_ glad, because holy crap, the music industry’s most hotly talked about are they/aren’t they couple stepped out of their SUV and you couldn’t see where one ended or the other began. Pretty much as soon as they stepped foot on the red carpet, Toby had his hand on Happy’s back, and she had her own arm tucked around him, slotting together like two stunning looking jigsaw puzzle pieces.

_Seriously_. Best looking couple on the red carpet, bar maybe Paige and Walter (and Ralhp!!), who were rocking the monochrome look. We know that a lot of you guys will want to know what designer Happy was wearing, or what name Toby was in or whatever, but honestly we forgot to ask (and you’ll see why). Is it enough to say she was super _super_ pretty, in this amazing black-red dress, with this gorgeous leather corset-bund thing? And Toby looked dapper and sharp in his tux without his hat (which, _wierd_ right?).

MORE IMPORTANTLY, Happy looked as she has lately whenever she _has_ been papped, free, relaxed and just?? She looks happy, pun _in-fucking-tended_. Gone is the reticent, recalcitrant, reluctant drummer who refuses to play nice with the journalists. Alright, okay, not completely gone - this is still the same drummer who shoved an overly enthusiastic fan who got a little too close to Paige last year (what even happened to him? Wasn’t he bragging about suing a while back?). But there’s a joy to her now, like a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders and your admins here are pleased as punch to see that. Especially one of us!!

As you all know, Cassidy here managed to get a couple of autographs and selfies with the band last year in Utah, and had like, a five min conversation with them all before they got on the road again ( _best. night. ever!_ ), and would you believe that Happy fucking Quinn remembers this? That she came over and answered our questions even though they had to practically run to make the ceremony? Because she **did**. Don’t believe us?  Here is the vid of our way-too-brief interview. If you can’t click the video because of reasons (??? why???) or if it’s unavailable in your country, then don’t worry babes, we got you covered.

TRANSCRIPT:  
Us: Happy! Toby! Please could you answer a few of our questions? We won’t take up -

_Happy notices us near the press, puts a hand on Toby’s chest to get his attention and he leans down to let Happy whisper in his ear. The photographers they’re in front of go fucking nuts, but they just walk away from them towards us._

Happy: Hey, I remember you. Utah, right? You stayed after the show. You uh, you get home safe? You had a way to go.  
U: Um wow, yeah! Yeah I did. You remember that?  
H: Of course I do. Thank you so much for your support.  
U: Um, _omigod_ , no thank _you_. I’m so so so glad you decided to stay with the band. I’m still your biggest fan ever!  
Toby: Aww, see Happy, I told you I couldn’t possibly be _everybody’s_ fave.

_Happy elbows him in the stomach - but he sort of rolls with the motion. It’s obviously something she does all the time, because he! just! takes! it! with! a! **smile**!!! (see the post before this one for photos)_

H: Shut up, Curtis, what do you know?  
T: _Yes dear_. So what sort of questions you crazy kids got for us?  
U: Okay, we know you don’t have long, so we literally have just three. Uh, one: how do you feel about being nominated for the Top Group award?  
T: God, what _don’t_ we feel about it? Walt’s over the fucking - oh shit, sorry no swearing right? - over the moon in a ‘duh I knew it would be’ way. Sly’s ecstatic _[blogger note: yo, by the way, Sylvester came to the awards ceremony with Walter’s sister Megan, so I guess the rumours about them were true?? Someone confirm.]_ that his keyboard solo in _I Dreamt That I Was Chaz Bonesteel_ was so highly praised. Paige’s been walking on cloud fucking - ow, _Happy_ -  
H: Read the signs, asshole, they say no swearing!  
T: - Cloud nine, yeah.  
U: And what about the two of you?  
T: We’ve, ah. Hmm. Been celebrating? Let’s say that.

_Toby, honest to God, looks down at Happy and waggles his eyebrows a bit and bumps her side gently with a hip - she ducks her head briefly to hide the grin that flashes across her face before meeting his stare with a raised eyebrow. IT GET’S BETTER._

H: In front of the bandom, huh?  
T: No better place, Hap. Next question?  
U: Um, okay, okay, w-we know that you guys have been working on your next album since the tour. Can you give us any hints or clues as to what it might contain? Titles, or if it’s more pop, or rock…?  
H&T: [they laugh] _Punk_.  
H: We can’t call ourselves an anarchist punk-rock band without the majority of it being kinda punk, right?  
U: But it sounds like maybe a little bit of it might not be?  
T: Damn, busted. Yeah there’s one or two songs like Sly’s _One Thing’s That Worth The Risk_. Cute, bouncy shi- stuff.  
  
_Cabe Gallo (what a fox) comes along to tell Happy and Toby they have to get going, but Happy shakes her head and asks for just a few minutes more, that they’d agreed to three questions with us, and Cabe kind of sighs a little but fondly? It’s stupidly cute? Toby rolls his eyes and looks at our camera._

T: He won’t admit it but Happy is his second favourite child and it’s _so unfair_.  
H: One guess where Curtis falls in that line-up, right? We’re gonna have to go real soon, so -  
U: Of course! Alright. Um. Okay so you’re totally free to walk off if you want and not answer this, but the fans want to know - we want to know _so bad_. You and Toby, there was that kiss on stage at your last show, and then you’ve both not really said anything online or with the press. We know that you’re entitled to your privacy but - well, you’re together now?

_They both fall a little quiet, and some of the previous boisterousness and excitement slips away. Happy and Toby exchange this most amazingly tender look, her tilting her head to look up at him with this tiny smile playing about at the corner of her mouth, him staring down at her like she’s some fucking angel of light._

T: [low toned, murmured] What do you think, sweetheart? _Are_ we together now?

_And then there - Happy can’t even help herself, and she grins, and it’s big and wide and b e a u t i f u l._

H: Something like that, yeah.

_Then Cabe is back, chivvying them along, and they throw their thanks and goodbyes to us over their shoulders._

So there you have it folks. What Hello! and Rolling Stone and Perez Hilton have not managed to eke out of the Homeland Security, your lovely admins here at fyeahhomelandsecurity _have_. Quintis is real, it’s a thing. But more important than the fact that some of the fans have been vindicated, or some have been disproved or whatever bullshit, is the fact that they’re so obviously _happy_ and in love.

And what else is there to say, really?”

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [Cassidy](happyfuckingquinn.tumblr.com) and [Amanda](darrancriss.tumblr.com). 
> 
> You can find us on tumblr: [Ginny](http://northerngirlchild.tumblr.com) and [Megan](http://melancholylouis.tumblr.com). We also have a writing misadventures tag filled with things that just [kept](http://melancholylouis.tumblr.com/post/114262281197/would-you-believe-me-if-i-told-you-that) [going](http://melancholylouis.tumblr.com/post/115504553132/further-writing-misadventures-and-miscellaneous) [wrong](http://melancholylouis.tumblr.com/post/115583130172/northerngirlchild-omg-walter-is-the-goldfish). **Check out[the dedicated scorpion band au](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/scorpion-band-au) tag for further updates, additions, shenanigans and replies to asks!**


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